Rapid Peril
by majorbee
Summary: An attack by Orcs at the rapids of Sarn Gebir, leaves Frodo and a wounded Boromir trapped in the middle of the river. The Ring takes its chance. Can Boromir resist? And if he does, how it will it alter events at Amon Hen and further?
1. Chapter 1

**Rapid Peril**

**By Carolyn Golledge**

_**With Eleanor Tremayne**_

_**Chapter One Surprise Attack**_

"Not good," Gimli said, scowling down at the raging river from the rocky embankment.

"No," Aragorn agreed, hearing the comment even above the deafening roar of white water rapids. Sarn Gebir, the ugliest and most dangerous stretch of the mighty Anduin lay ahead of them. He rubbed his jaw, then turned and looked back and down the way they had come.

It was a very rough track, strewn with boulders overgrown with scrub and small trees. They had walked at least a mile and still the Sarn Gebir rapids showed no sign of abating. He had known they might have to porter the boats around this section of the Anduin, but he had hoped it would be a shorter stretch.

He looked up as Boromir returned from his forward scouting, Merry and Pippin as ever clambering along at his side like ducklings with their mother. Aragorn smiled as Boromir growled warning and threw out a hand to grab Pippin's coat, hauling him away from the treacherous footing of some loose shale.

Pippin grinned up at the Man and bounced on around him to report cheerfully, "If you think it's bad here you should see it down there!"

Gimli grunted and shook his head. Aragorn lifted a questioning eyebrow at Boromir who climbed over a jumble of boulders to stand at his side.

"That's about the sum of it," Boromir said, a smile tugging at his lips despite the bad news as Pippin dodged the big hand that would otherwise have mussed his already wind-blown hair.

"And there's more boulders to climb around down there, too," Merry added.

"And thorn bushes," Pippin said. "Lots of thorns."

"So why do the three of you look so cheerful?" Gimli asked.

"We don't like boats," Pippin said.

Merry nodded agreement, "It's good to stretch our legs a bit."

"We'll lose ground and time to the enemy," Aragorn said, sighing as he met Boromir's eyes. They both knew only too well how dangerously exposed they would be as they carried the boats.

Boromir nodded. "The track is rough, but if Gimli puts his axe to use, we could have all three boats on the other side by nightfall. There's a small cave there that would hide us for the night."

"Some good news at last," Gimli said.

"And you get to use your axe!" Pippin added, trying for some more morale boosting.

"I'd rather dull my blade on Orc heads than tree trunks."

"Let's hope you don't get your wish," Boromir said, and began moving up river to where they had left Legolas with Sam and Frodo.

Aragorn walked as close to the other Man's side as the overgrown track would allow, though he need not have worried that the others would overhear above the roar of white water. "If we have to retreat onto the river, how bad will it be?"

"Bad," Boromir said succinctly. "About half a mile further on, it narrows again and in the middle of the current there are shallows where debris has piled up on sharp rocks. Immediately behind that is a monstrous whirlpool."

He met Aragorn's eyes with equal worry, lowering his voice to add, "If attack comes, I hope it's after we have the boats beyond that point at least. Despite our good Elf friend's reassurances about the boats, no wood can survive being pinned by a flood tide against such stone teeth. Or dragged under by the powerful suction of a whirlpool."

Aragorn noted his friend had left unspoken their greatest fear – none of the Hobbits could swim. "You think it's still raining up river, then?"

Boromir nodded, distracted as he picked his way through thorny scrub that hid an outcropping of rocks. "The river has risen higher already."

Aragorn sighed and said nothing but stepped around Boromir who had turned back to check on what Aragorn now also thought of as the other Man's 'little ones'. This looked set to be a long difficult day. He should have expected such after the relatively easier going of the past two days with the river obediently and effortlessly carrying them ever southward. South toward Gondor and the Falls of Rauros that would soon enough force decisions on them all.

Boromir cursed as his foot slipped on some loose shale and the weight of the boat immediately threatened to push him over the side of the embankment. His shield shifted and thumped against his back, annoying him. He was leading, hands at his back as he gripped the prow tightly in his gloved fists. Aragorn followed, carrying the heavier stern. They were portering the second boat after very hard going with the first one. Their reward had been in both securing one boat safely to wait ahead, and too, they'd spotted what appeared a much better, if higher route this time. The footing was not as bad here as it had been on the lower track which was considerably more muddy and covered with vines hiding rocks. Boromir was amazed they'd managed the first trip without anyone breaking an ankle.

This leg wasn't all that much easier, the sharper slope making it harder to hold to the boat. '_We should change positions for the last boat,_' Boromir decided. '_Aragorn would do better finding the footing because I, as Faramir is so fond of reminding me, make a wonderful beast of burden but am no Ranger._'

The memory made him smile as he steadied himself and took another careful step forward, the going tricky as the bank dipped into a small, overgrown scrubby gully. It was as well Legolas had the watch, leaving the Men free to concentrate on their difficult and tiring work. Ahead of them he could see the grey-green mass of thorn bushes where Gimli was hacking away enthusiastically, no doubt imagining orc heads flying. Merry and Pippin gingerly pulled at the cut branches with their gloved hands, having made it their job to clear the path of both scrub and rocks where needed. Behind came Frodo, with Sam, loyal as ever, occasionally lending a bracing shoulder.

Though Frodo had regained some strength after the respite found in Lothlorien, he was again already showing signs of an unnatural fatigue.

'_The Ring be cursed!_' Boromir scowled, then sighed as the thing seemed somehow to hear his thought. It leered at him, filling his mind with ludicrous images of all it could give him. It was only toying with him now, not responding to his hostility with the usual scenes of Minas Tirith under siege and his men dying, but rather promising him riches, feasts, a life of luxury and ease. The thing should know by now that such a life held no true appeal for a born soldier.

'_I'd be bored witless in a day!_' He grinned then chuckled as Pippin caught the grin and gave him a proud thumbs up followed by a bowing wave to direct him to the cleared path. Disgruntled by his cheerfulness, the sour shadow of The Ring fled his thoughts and he returned his full attention to the weight of the boat and the sloping slippery path.

"Orcs! Wargs!" Legolas shouted in sudden breathless warning from above and behind.

Boromir swore. He couldn't drop the boat here, it would slide straight into the river, possibly colliding with the Hobbits. Gimli went charging up slope past him, scrambling with more agility than Boromir would have credited to reinforce the rearguard. Merry and Pippin were already urging Frodo and Sam into the cover of the piled thorn branches behind the rocky outcropping.

"There!" Boromir pointed with his chin and tugged the prow of the boat upslope toward a jutting hunk of black rock.

"I see it!" Aragorn shouted back, bracing to take more weight.

Boromir heaved, grunted and lifted the prow onto his shoulder, taking the burden so Aragorn could angle the stern about and wedge it behind the rock. Boromir dumped his end in time to see Legolas and Gimli flying downslope toward them, dodging a hail of black-fletched arrows.

"Wargs!" Aragorn snarled, taking cover behind the boat to unsling his bow. The stench of the creatures was thick on the otherwise fresh river breeze. One of the creatures thundered into view, its shoulders bristling with Legolas' arrows, its orc rider already felled. Blundering, stumbling, the thing set to leap the boat.

"Gondor!" Boromir bellowed, lunging to his feet and slicing his sword-blade quick and hard into the belly. Spraying blood and gore blinded him a moment as he followed through with his shoulder, shoving the falling beast so that it would not slide into the Hobbits on the slope below. The Warg triggered a rockslide with it as it tumbled over the embankment, impacting with a mighty fountaining of river water from far below that still reached high enough to douse Merry and Pippin who had come to their feet, blades drawn.

"Down!" Boromir yelled, swinging his shield from his shoulder onto his left forearm and bringing it up to guard his heart. Arrows whistled about him and he needed to take his own advice. He ducked then came smoothly to his feet, using the boat as part cover to gain Aragorn's side. Legolas and Gimli felled many, but still more poured over the lip of the slope, meeting death on the Men's sword blades. Somehow, over the noise of both the river and the battle, Boromir heard or sensed a cry of alarm from Pippin. He turned just enough to see while felling another enemy and yelled warning to Aragorn, "They have our flank!"

Breathlessly, Aragorn nodded, Legolas fell back to him, and Gimli joined Boromir who charged downslope to aid the Hobbits. Merry and Pippin, he noted with pride, had bought them just enough time, slicing upward from cover to maim the leading Orcs. Then Boromir was there, his blade singing, slicing enemy heads from shoulders. Gimli came to a sliding halt close by, leaving enough leeway to swing his axe, and the orc charge slowed a little. This was the main band, Boromir realized, the other had been a feint. They were intent on reaching the Hobbits. The first party of archers had achieved its aim, and were keeping Aragorn and Legolas pinned under a barrage of arrows.

A familiar stench fouled the air and another Warg charged clear of the wooded ridge. Boromir stepped forward, threw his dirk and felled its rider. At the same time, he caught sight of a much larger Orc archer partially hidden by the trees. It was much taller and more solidly built and wore some kind of white paint, like a hand, slashed across its face.

The Warg charged downslope and Boromir took a wild swing at its legs, hoping to divert it from smashing through the Hobbit's partial shelter. The sword blade thudded hard into flesh and, caught in a tangle of legs, it dragged Boromir to his knees. He tried to hold onto the sword hilt, but it was wrenched from his grip. The crippled creature bellowed rage and attempted to turn back at its attacker, losing balance and toppling headlong down the slippery slope.

Cursing, Boromir lunged after it, then saw with relief his sword snag and fall free. The Warg disappeared over the high embankment, smashing brush and small trees on the edge before plunging into the wild river.

Boromir dropped to his haunches and slid a little way downslope toward his fallen sword, his left hand holding the shield and his right snatching at saplings and rocks to slow his pace. He snared the sword and lurched to his feet, swaying unsteadily a moment on the precarious incline. Frodo and Sam watched him wild-eyed from amid the thorn bushes to his left. He spared them what he hoped was a reassuring smile and waved at them to come toward him. He would shepherd the Hobbits to a more sheltered position among the rocks to his right.

Sam reached him safely, one arm outstretched for Frodo's hand.

"Come on!" he urged.

Another volley of arrows suddenly flew about them, whistling and sighing the deadly song Boromir knew so well. His shield shuddered with their impact as he shoved Sam back into the rocks and leapt forward to cover Frodo who was having difficulty climbing, seemed to be heavily weighed by something. Knowing he could not reach Frodo before the archers let loose again, Boromir threw himself full length to the ground, sliding downslope, his left arm outflung, the shield held at the best angle to defend Frodo.

It left Boromir dangerously exposed and he paid the price, gasping as sharp pain flared in his upper right arm. It was no ordinary arrow, but thick enough to punch through his mail sleeves. The shock numbed his right hand and again the sword fell free. Boromir was moving too fast downslope to grab it with his already burdened left. He slewed around in time to prevent himself slamming full force into Frodo, and wrapped his injured right arm about the Hobbit's waist, pulling him close. A huge shadow suddenly blotted the sunlight, and Boromir rolled onto his back, feeling something sharp dig into him. Expecting a trampling Warg, he kept Frodo beneath himself. Rather, it was the monstrous white painted archer who stood over them. Sneering, it lunged at Boromir, intending to gut him.

Grunting with the effort, Boromir slammed the sharp metal shield boss against the creature's sword arm, and following his own momentum, shoved upright, pushing his lightly armoured shoulder into his enemy's chest.

The thing was heavier and stronger than he expected and it merely stumbled back a pace, remaining on its feet and quickly reclaiming a firm grip on its blade. Snarling, it made a wild slash at Boromir's face, missed as he wove backward, and instead sliced through the strap holding the horn to his chest. It fell into the mud and Boromir had no time to consider its loss. He instinctively tried to pull his weaponless right arm up to meet the next blow. Sluggish, numbed, it did not respond quickly. In the moment, he thought he was dead.

But the creature grimaced in pain and staggered backward again, and Boromir realized Frodo had wriggled free just enough to stab the enemy in the unguarded back of the knee. It was all the opening Boromir needed. He rammed the point of the shield boss into the enemy's face then landed a savage kick to the archer's abdomen. At the same moment, one of Legolas' arrows sprouted from the Orc's shoulder. Howling pain and rage, the creature retreated, making a stumbling run for the cover of the woods.

"Well done!" Boromir gasped thanks to Frodo.

Frodo's lips twitched in pleased response that altered to panic.

"Sam! Get down!" he screamed, his blue eyes wide with fear. Boromir whirled about, found Sam standing exposed, having no doubt attempted to come to their aid. He could not see the orc taking aim with its blade raised at his back. Somehow, Sam slid and ducked safely away, yelling his own warning, "Behind you!"

Grabbing with his left hand, Boromir closed his fist on the chopped tree branch that had lain beneath him, and hurled it point first at more Orcs closing on them from below the lip of the embankment. It struck the leader and its fall tripped several others.

"Come on!" Boromir urged and Frodo got his feet under him. The Hobbit took one step, then fell, stumbling on some unseen object and crying out in despair as he slid toward the enemy.

Cursing, Boromir lunged and managed to grab hold of Frodo's trailing cloak and pulled. His shield slid forward along his arm, snaring his hand, its sudden added weight sending him sliding to the left and downslope, his fist holding tight to Frodo. He hoped to use his failing right arm to gain some purchase to stop them both toppling over the lip of the embankment. But there was nothing, and his wounded arm was too awkward.

Frodo screamed as suddenly they found themselves falling through empty air toward the rushing white water. The impact with it knocked the breath from Boromir's lungs. Ice cold water closed over his head and he fought the urge to gasp for air as he plunged further under the river surface, his left fist still desperately holding to Frodo's cloak. Time seemed to slow and details came clearly to his mind as often happened in battle. He wondered if the cloak clasp would hold, and if it did would it only succeed in strangling Frodo?

Boromir kicked out and pushed in what he hoped was an upward direction. The current whirled and spun crazily, tearing about him, and threatening to upend him head over feet. His lungs burned and he caught a glimpse of Frodo's white, wide–eyed face staring at him through the silt-murky water.

Then, they broke through the raging surface together, strained mouths drawing both air and water as waves slapped and leaped in a frenzied battle with the restraints of the steep, narrow gorge. Somehow, Boromir succeeded in pulling Frodo close until he was able to get a more secure hold about the terrified Hobbit's upper arm. If he lost that hold, Frodo was dead, had no chance, even if he had been able to swim. The terror must be all the greater for him, for Boromir knew Frodo had lost both his parents to drowning. Boromir himself was normally a strong swimmer, and had on more than once occasion been forced to dare the Anduin at night to escape enemy forces. But now he had only one arm at full strength, and that to hold onto Frodo. His right was responding a little now, but with no true usefulness. Boromir wondered how he was managing to keep both himself and Frodo afloat, then felt it – a buoyancy at his back. The shield! The fall from the bank had dragged it around onto his back once more and there its concave boss had trapped air beneath it. The Valar be praised!

With all the grimly amused detachment his brother found unsettling in him in similar dire situations, Boromir weighed their chances.

'_All we need do is avoid being smashed to a pulp on the rocks, sucked under by the whirlpool, frozen solid, or washed all the way over the mighty Falls of Rauros._'

No, that last was not a threat; the whirlpool would draw them in first. But, if somehow they could make it beyond that point, calmer waters awaited. Frodo did not have that much time. Despite Boromir's help, he was swallowing water, the surface so choppy and wild that Boromir too, was beginning to choke. Keeping your mouth shut was a good plan, but still meant inhaling water through your nose, and then you began coughing, and swallowing more water. Frodo obviously had no experience at all in surviving a river in spate. He would drown even if his body never sank beneath the surface. Locked together, Hobbit and Man were hurtled at break neck speed downstream.

Then Boromir saw it, a clump of shadow protruding from the white water. Could it be the jagged rock outcropping and tangled logs and debris he had spotted mid-river while scouting? It was their only chance of avoiding death in the whirlpool where the flimsy floatation of the shield could not hope to save them. The rocky teeth appeared to be racing toward them, though the reverse was true. They would pass a little too wide of it, the buoyant shield carrying them helplessly on the tide. It was now or never, he must dump air from the shield at precisely the right moment to angle them inward to the rock. He waited a few tense moments, then rolled slightly, shrugging his left shoulder, and felt the air surge free. He sank deeper into the water, but only for a moment, forcing his right arm to aid his lunging swim. Something unseen beneath the rapids suddenly rammed into his hip, swirling him about and his back slammed into the rocky island. Frodo's weight hit him next, making him gasp as desperately he sought for purchase before the terrible power of the water could drag them back into its deadly snare.

With tearing, groaning effort, he swung his right arm up and over a moss covered log as it lurched into view. He hooked his elbow about it, felt the river try to break his grip, struggled, and finally was secure enough to pull Frodo closer.

"Grab hold!" he urged the dazed Hobbit, uncertain as to whether he was heard, or if Frodo had sufficient strength remaining. But Frodo swung in with the current and wrapped first one arm, then both, tightly about the log. At last Boromir's over-burdened muscles were eased and the weight was taken from him. Frodo clung tenaciously to the log that was jammed against the rock looming sharply above them. Together, stone and wood broke just enough of the force of the water to make resistance possible. Then, as the current pushed him into a small hollow in the rock face, Boromir's feet touched bottom. Elated, he flashed a grin and announced. "I can stand! The rock shelf must be wider beneath than above!"

Still it was an unstable platform, the surging flood water constantly tugging at differing angles, and the rock surface treacherously uneven and slippery and covered by a jumble of branches. The current surged high about Boromir's waist, the struggle against it already sapping him of strength. He anchored himself as best he could, his back to the tangle of wood and rock, and his booted feet spread, the right wedged tightly beneath the largest log.

"I can't hold on! " Frodo gasped.

Boromir nodded understanding, grateful for his now freed left hand. Frodo could not possibly hold to the protruding, moss-slick log for more than a few moments, and the water was too deep for him, even had he the strength to stand against the eddying current. The shield had already acted as a life preserver and must not be lost for it might have to do so again.

"Not long." Boromir promised, fighting the urge to hurry, knowing it would only cause him to fumble with already stiff fingers garbed in sodden leather as he worked blind to secure the shield strap to the log. But, he'd had plenty of prior experience with that, too. In all his long years battling to hold the Anduin as a supply route from the south, he'd more than once found himself in the water, in the dark….

With the shield secured, he took a firm grip on Frodo's upper arm.

"Right," he shouted directly into Frodo's ear to make himself heard above the current. "Now, climb up."

"Up? Where?" Frodo coughed then squinted up at the sheer, slick rock face that showed not the least crevice, having long since been worn mirror smooth by the river.

"Up here," Boromir said, tapping his chest then shoulders with his clumsy right hand. He tried what he hoped was an encouraging smile, though his teeth were already chattering with the intense cold.

"Oh." Frodo considered a moment and quickly reached the same conclusion. There was no other option, no other anchor anywhere in reach that could possibly support him, and Boromir couldn't hang onto him forever. "But you're wounded. I can see the arrow still in your arm."

"Not the first time. It's nothing," Boromir said. It was not a serious wound, and as long as the barb remained embedded, he would not lose a great deal of blood, especially not in this cold. And there lay the lie – even a minor wound would be deadly when cold-sickness set in.

"It must hurt. A lot." Frodo said.

"No," Boromir said truthfully. "It's numb." '_Mostly numb'_, he amended silently as the cursed thing stabbed pain now his attention had been drawn to it. "No time for talk. Climb."

After some tense moments of scrabbling and slipping, with Boromir catching him more than once, Frodo finally managed to seat himself atop Boromir's broad shoulders. Only Frodo's hairy feet were now beneath water. The air would be much warmer than the water, giving Frodo a much better chance at survival. Provided his living island refuge could remain upright. Boromir knew even he would succumb soon enough if left in such intensely cold water for any great length of time. '_Hurry, Aragorn!_'

"Thank you!" Frodo leaned forward slightly to shout close to Boromir's ear. The noise of the rapids was another factor that would wear them down in time, adding to their exhaustion.

Boromir nodded then tilted his head up to grin at the drenched, pale Hobbit. "Gondorian Adventure T-Travel!" he joked. "Thrills g-guaranteed."

He was heartened when that drew a spluttering laugh from his small friend. He tucked Frodo's legs more securely beneath his arms, wanting to be certain that when Frodo tired and slumped or slipped forward, he would not fall from his human mountain.

"But what about you?" Frodo asked. "You're so cold."

"No more than you," Boromir said with all the command that had kept green troops going against repeated overwhelming odds. "There's plenty of daylight left. The others will find us. I don't think we came very far downstream."

Frodo nodded and blessedly, did not say what they both were thinking – were the rest of the Fellowship indeed still alive? There seemed to be a great many well-armed enemy, constantly reinforcing the first attackers. But then again, both Boromir and Frodo had witnessed the Fellowship win victory in extremely tough battles before.

"Pull your cloak hood up over your head, Frodo," Boromir instructed. "It will keep your head warm, and that –"

"Makes all the difference," Frodo quoted the oft repeated advice with a smile. He did as he was told, saying, "Oh, that is much better. The wind is cut, and the material is warm even though it's wet. I'm all the more glad of the Elves' thoughtful gift." Boromir felt gentle hands pat his bare head with sympathy. "But you don't have yours."

Boromir snorted ironic amusement. "I took it off before we went for the second boat. It was too hot. And it caught on the thorn bushes."

"Hmm," Frodo said and Boromir felt him shifting about a little. The next he knew, there was some small but blessed relief from the icy wind as Frodo pulled the long sodden folds of the cloak forward until it was tented about himself and about Boromir's head and shoulders. Remarkably enough, even drenched, the material was indeed warm.

"Thank you, Frodo," Boromir said, sincerely touched by the thoughtful gesture.

"It's the least I can do," Frodo said, adding after a moment, "So now we wait."

"Aragorn will come for us," Boromir said. "You know he will."

"He will. And the others," Frodo agreed.

'_Yes, they will come – for Frodo – not you._' A familiar treacherous voice purred in Boromir's mind. '_They don't' care what happens to you. You're not important._'

"Don't listen to it, Boromir," Frodo said, speaking remarkably quietly into his ear, his breath warm against Boromir's chilled face. "It lies."

Boromir snorted humorlessly. "So I've noticed." He waited a moment, then asked, "It speaks to you, too?"

"All the time."

Boromir's heart lurched in sympathy. The cursed thing at least left him alone for entire hours at a stretch, sometimes. But Frodo would have no such luxury. "And – can you hear what it says to me?"

"Not the words, just …the feel, the aim. It torments everyone, but you the most. It was so angry after Caradhras."

"The mountain?" Boromir said with genuine surprise. "Why?"

He sensed rather than saw Frodo's satisfied smile. "Because you won."

Unimpressed Boromir only grunted. "Gandalf didn't seem to think so."

"Why do you say that?"

"I overheard what he said to you. Just before we reached Moria. He didn't trust me, he thought the Ring would win soon enough."

"Not true. You only heard part of what he said. He said a lot more about it after we entered the mines." Frodo paused significantly and poked Boromir in the neck, which, thanks to the Hobbit wrapped around it, was a little warmer than the rest of him. "You know, Boromir, just after you helped save me from the monster and carried me inside."

Boromir heaved a huge sigh that lifted Frodo upward a little. "Thank you, Frodo. But I think he'd wonder if the Ring was in fact calling me to rescue it, rather than you."

"I told you I can hear it!" Frodo said hotly. "It was as scared as me of that thing in the water. Well, almost," he amended honestly. "Gandalf can hear it, too, so he'd know. It was too scared to be doing any talking. It had nothing to do with your coming for me."

"Maybe," Boromir conceded. There was a long silence in which the cold seemed to lunge and bite like a hungry wolf, and the pain in his arm began to make itself felt as Frodo's weight became more a strain. He was weakening. He needed to keep talking. About something cheerful, for preference….

"How long have you known Sam?" he asked.

"Most of my life," Frodo said. "I met him after Uncle Bilbo took me in." He hesitated. "I was only very young."

Boromir could have kicked himself. '_You just reminded him that both his parents drowned. Great work, idiot!_'

"Oh," he said, trying to change to something brighter. "Sam has enormous courage, breaking cover like that to try to help us back there."

"I know." Frodo sighed heavily, again warming Boromir's face. "That's what worries me. I wish Gandalf hadn't dragged him into this."

"Gandalf dragged him into this?" Boromir repeated, mildly astonished.

"Oh, I'm sure Sam would have come anyway," Frodo said quickly. "I mean, he was listening at the window." Frodo gave a little chuckle, full of affection. "He told Gandalf he was only cutting the verge."

Boromir snorted. "So he was outside, where, in your garden at the Shire?"

"Yes. It was well after dark, a fact Gandalf mentioned, after he dragged Sam in through the window and onto the table. Poor Sam looked set to die of fright."

"I can imagine!" Boromir was enjoying this, now here was a tale to keep his mind from the cold. "What did he say?"

"He denied having been listening, said he'd heard nothing except –" Frodo dropped his voice a little and changed his accent in a very good imitation of his friend. "That is I heard a good deal about a Ring and the Dark Lord and the end of the world."

"The end of the world!" Boromir laughed. Then just as quickly he realized, that was, sadly, no exaggeration.

There was another silence and even over the background roar of the rapids, Boromir's teeth could plainly be heard, chattering a violent staccato. Frodo would be able to feel his shivering as steadily it became more convulsive. The only warmth was from the contact with Frodo's clinging body and the burning pain in his wounded arm that, ironically, had worsened because of the sharp shivering fits. Boromir decided he needed to turn the conversation away from anything to do with the Hobbits having been dragged into this deadly 'quest, mission, thing'. He smiled at the memory of Pippin's eager but silly description at the Council of Elrond. Back to – he frowned – what had he been thinking…? He couldn't quite remember. A bad sign. He was losing concentration…. Oh right, meaning to talk about something else, something back in the warmth and cheer of the Shire.

"So," he said. "You lived in Bilbo's house?"

"Yes. But it's mine now. He gave it to me when he went off to Rivendell. He gave everything to me."

Including the Ring. Boromir realized. Immediate sharp anger filled him. '_What unhappy chance, what unfair chance, that so vital a weapon should so easily come to someone who could not see it's worth. It should have been mine! I would know how to harness it for –_ '

'_SHUT UP!_' Boromir yelled back at the insidious voice. He felt Frodo shift above him and knew the Hobbit had 'overheard' the exchange.

"See?" Frodo said. "You just did it again, Boromir. You keep winning. It really hates that." A small hand patted Boromir's wet, cold head. "I love it when you do that. I absolutely love it!"

"I'm glad." It was some consolation, but Boromir worried how much more effective the Ring's attacks would be when he became more exhausted.

"And," Frodo continued. "I told Gandalf about how you keep doing it."

"And?"

"He knew. And he was proud of you, Boromir. He told me so. He said he had been proud of you ever since the day…. Well, since the last time he'd seen you as a boy."

"When my mother died?"

"Yes."

"Huh. Fancy that."

"Fancy what?"

"Gandalf feeling like that. I thought – "

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Tell me," Frodo insisted with a teasing growl, and small fingers pinched his ear lobes. "Or I'll twist your ears off."

Boromir bit back a laugh. Frodo was beginning to remind him – again – of Faramir. "Go ahead," he said with mock stoicism. "I don't think I'd miss them right now."

Frodo began immediately rubbing his ears, very gently. "I know," he said with sympathy. "You're so cold."

"Am not." Boromir said jauntily. "I'm just having a much needed bath. I'm sure Legolas would approve."

Frodo snorted a laugh. "Anyway," he said pointedly, "Just so you know you were wrong about Gandalf." His voice thickened with grief. "He thought very kindly of you. He was always kind."

"Mostly kind." Boromir corrected. "Ask Pippin."

"True. But –" the fingers rubbed wonderful warmth into Boromir's frozen cheeks now. "I think he may have loved Pippin the most. So there you go, he only snaps at people he likes the best!"

"I concede the point, Frodo. And thanks for the massage, it's helping. But you must be near frozen solid yourself, up there in the open air in wet clothes."

"A long sight better than being down there in that icy water!" A pause, then, hopefully, "Do you think they might come soon?"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two Rescue

Panting breathlessly, exhausted and splattered with foul black Orc blood, Aragorn waited for another attacker. None came. Warily, he turned full circle, sword at the ready. The only enemy in sight were sprawled on the ground, torn, broken, dead – and in around the area Gimli and Boromir had defended – headless. Somehow it seemed they had won. All was quiet but for his own ragged breathing and the background roar of the river and the wind in the trees. He sheathed his sword and watched Gimli put down his axe and Legolas re-sling his bow and give the dwarf a friendly pat on the shoulder.

"Count heads, if you don't believe me," Gimli growled. He smirked up at the tall Elf. "Three more than you. I win."

"Some of those are Boromir's," Legolas pointed out.

"And I suppose Aragorn never shot a single arrow?"

Aragorn shook his head and smiled. "I take it you two are all right?" he called. "Let the Hobbits know they can come out now."

He frowned, peered into the tree shadows and the hollows among boulders. "Where is Boromir?"

"It's over!" Gimli bellowed. "It's safe to come out, my small friends."

Merry and Pippin popped up from behind a boulder very close to the dwarf.

"We weren't hiding," Pippin said indignantly.

"Right," Merry added. "We were waiting in ambush. "

"We wounded a few before they could get to Boromir and Sam and Frodo." Pippin turned around and lifted a hand to shade his eyes as he looked downslope. "Where are they anyway?"

Worried now, Aragorn exchanged an urgent glance with Legolas and began running downslope. Sam suddenly appeared from dangerously close to the edge of the steep river bank. He stumbled and staggered blindly, his chest heaving and his hands clasped to his face.

"Sam!" Aragorn yelled.

Legolas reached him first and called. "He's not hurt."

Aragorn skidded to a halt at their side, Gimli making a lot of noise and causing a minor rock-fall as he too arrived.

"Sam?" He was sobbing uncontrollably, a sound that surprised Aragorn and made the blood run cold in his veins. Sam was unshakeable, stolid, never lost control, because he had to be strong for –- "Frodo? Where is he, Sam?"

"And where is Boromir?" Legolas added, sounding puzzled that his superior eyesight had been unable to locate the Man.

"Dead," Sam gasped, and lowered his hands to blink tear filmed eyes up at him. "They're both dead!"

Aragorn plainly heard the shocked intake of breath from Merry and Pippin who clambered onto the scene just in time to hear.

"No!" Pippin declared. "No, it can't be. They were fighting the Orcs down here. I saw Frodo stab a huge one in the knee just as it was about to stab Boromir. And then –"

"Then?" Legolas said. He had gone to his knees and unclasped his cloak to wrap it about Sam whose own cloak was insufficient against the chill of such overwhelming shock.

"Then…. I, I thought….They were heading for cover. Right there."

Aragorn, Gimli and Merry followed as Pippin walked slowly to the place where a jumble of boulders made a small overhang.

"No, oh no! It's Boromir's horn!" He snatched it out of the mud and turned to hold it toward Aragorn as if somehow Strider could make Boromir appear. Severed leather dangled from each end of the horn.

"The strap is cut," Pippin whispered

Aragorn took a step on unsteady legs and pulled the Hobbit into his sheltering hug.

"His sword." Gimli's tone was totally flat, without hope. He stood holding the weapon that had lain close by, his eyes a mirror of Pippin's despair. He met Aragorn's gaze with shared grief and horror – were their friends dead, or captured? Had their bodies been taken as ….

Aragorn swallowed hard against the acid in his throat. He could not bear to see the loving care with which Pippin tried to clean the clinging mud from the horn, holding it with the curve placed like a strong arm about his waist.

"They are fallen," Legolas said with infinite sorrow, watching Gimli examine Boromir's sword. Steeling himself, he shepherded Sam closer.

Aragorn found it impossible to imagine their loss. How had he allowed the Fellowship to become separated? They should have stood and fought together. He had sworn to protect Frodo….

"There's no blood, though it's hard to see amid all this Orc filth," Gimli announced with some relief, and Aragorn realized shock had held him immobile while the dwarf had gone quickly to examine the surrounding hollows and slopes.

"Drownded," Sam said very, very quietly. "The Orcs didn't get them. They fell into the river."

"The river?" Merry and Pippin said in unison. They moved closer to the edge to peer at the roaring rapids in horror.

"Careful," Aragorn urged and went to them, placed one hand on each shoulder. Just as Boromir would have done, had he been here. Surely the Man could not be dead? So strong, so vital. And Frodo. The Ring. Gone again, a lurking threat swallowed by the river?

"Boromir is a very powerful swimmer," Gimli said, leaning on the hilt of the sword, its point imbedded in the mud. "Remember?" He peered hopefully up at Aragorn. "He hauled me out of that river in Hollin?"

Aragorn did remember. By comparison with the Anduin it had been a gentle stream, the waters warm. But it was true, Boromir was the best swimmer he had ever seen, having apparently had much need to be, forever risking the waters as he battled to defend Osgiliath and the Anduin. Could he have survived? As one, the remaining Fellowship turned and examined the roaring water. Frothy white waves smashed and piled one on the other, surging against the imprisoning rock walls of the gorge. How could anyone survive that?

"Frodo can't swim," Merry said, hollowly. Pippin drew a sharp breath, obviously struggling not to cry and hugging Boromir's horn to his chest. Merry wrapped an arm about his shoulders, drew him close. Pippin did start to cry, then.

"Was Frodo close to Boromir when they fell?" Legolas asked.

Sam sniffed loudly and nodded. "Frodo fell and Boromir tried to save him." Sad, brown eyes lifted to the group. "And he almost made it. He had hold of Frodo's cloak. He could have saved himself if he'd let go, but he wouldn't, he wouldn't." Sam looked away again, trying to hide a fresh bout of tears.

"Boromir would keep him afloat if anyone could," Gimli said with growing hope. He handed the sword to Legolas who accepted it with reverence.

"True," Legolas agreed, smoothly sliding the weapon into a loop in his belt. He met the Dwarf's eyes with equal need to believe. "Let us hope we may yet find them safe somewhere downstream. "Come!"

"Boromir was wounded," Sam said, bringing Legolas to an immediate halt and touching his hand to Gimli's arm. "I remembered how well he could swim too, I wanted to hope. But I saw…." He gulped, swallowed hard. "Saw the arrow hit him."

"Oh, no," Gimli sagged, all his urgent need to action deflated.

"How badly was he hurt?" Aragorn asked. He had an odd sensation, a strange, growing intuition that somehow, his friends were indeed still alive. It was as if the very rocks and earth cried out to him, telling him they still breathed but were in dire need of aid. Or at least, that Boromir breathed. The more he concentrated on it, the stronger the feeling became. He stood on Gondorian soil now, Aragorn knew, and he had seen the light in Boromir's eyes when he spoke of his homeland and how much it pleased him to at last be within its ancient borders. The land sang to the Man's heart, and the Anduin sang in his very blood. Blood that Aragorn shared.

"It hit him here." Sam indicated his upper right arm. "And he didn't let go. He didn't let go, Strider. He had his shield arm tight to Frodo's cloak."

"There, y'see," Gimli announced, straightening up again and hefting his darkly bloodied battle axe to his shoulder. "Told you, the lad is a tough one. He'll save Frodo, I know it. Now come, we've wasted enough time sitting around moaning! Let's move!"

The Dwarf strode off, hurrying awkwardly down the portage track, Legolas immediately out-distancing him, leaping ahead from boulder to boulder. Even knowing Legolas as well as he did, Aragorn was impressed to see that the Elf's gaze was not on the treacherous footing, but rather was keenly studying the river, searching and hoping.

A small hand slid beneath Aragorn's fingers and he looked down to meet Pippin's bright eyes.

"Maybe you should carry the horn?" Pippin said, and Merry added, "Boromir would want you to have it."

"Just 'til he's back," Pippin said, locking gazes with his cousin who nodded. "And we wouldn't want it dirty when we give it back to him. You're taller and can keep it out of the mud."

"I know he would consider you worthy guardians," Aragorn said, reluctant to accept it, a symbol of a bond of duty to Gondor, of all he was afraid to be.

"But you're his older cousin," Pippin said.

"And it's your job," Merry concluded.

Aragorn dutifully took the horn and the two Hobbits fell into step beside him.

SCENE BREAK***

"It's cold in here, Faramir," Boromir said, studying the gloomy cavern interior. Henneth Annun, Faramir had named it, and indeed it was a glorious window to the west – while the sun was in the western sky. But now it was nightfall, and the creeping chill that filled the cave in daylight was but a mild coolness by comparison.

Faramir laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. "Garad!" he called. "My brother is cold. Throw an extra log on the fire."

"I don't need it!" Boromir snapped, looking over his shoulder in time to see that yes, his good friend Garad was grinning broadly at Faramir and miming an old, feeble Man. Then he realized the two had been baiting him. As usual. And he'd taken the bait. As usual. He shook his head and bit back his own smile, tried to remain grumpy, continue the play that always mysteriously seemed to improve morale among the 'Never-Weary' Ithilien Rangers. Boromir cuffed Faramir on the side of the head, and hung on to draw his brother close, indicating the need of a more private comment.

Loudly he said, "Very funny, Garad!" Then, in a whisper for Faramir's hearing only, he added, "You know what I meant. It's not right."

Faramir shrugged. "The more the Steward seems to abandon them, the harder they fight. They know Gondor's need is the greater with such a one at the helm. Or, supposedly at the helm."

Boromir sighed heavily, and noted his breath fogged the icy air. "Nonetheless, it is not right that one arm of her defence is given all that can be spared and the other refused. I will see you better supplied." He met Faramir's eyes with a proud smile. "I won't have Garad come charging in one day to tell me he needs help to defrost you from the ice block you've become."

Faramir laughed, and Boromir basked in the happiness of the moment. Then he shivered so hard that his arm hurt him badly. "It's so damn cold in here, Faramir!"

"Boromir? Boromir! Wake up! You're falling!"

Frodo's voice, in a panic.

"What?" Boromir opened his eyes, remembered where he was, and almost wished he hadn't been awakened. The cold was an ice-knife that twisted and dug into every fibre of his being. He shuddered and staggered, his booted feet slipped and he grabbed urgently to steady Frodo who very nearly toppled from his shoulders. Boromir scrabbled for purchase and the current spun and fought him, sapping his remaining strength. With a grunting cry, he heaved and somehow righted himself, steadied Frodo. Again. He remembered now, this had happened more than once. The cold was beginning to kill him.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm all right now…."

"You're not all right," Frodo said. "You can't go on holding me on your shoulders like this. You need to keep some of your strength for yourself. Maybe I can climb up this rock."

Boromir felt him twist to look up and study the moss and water streaked smooth surface. He opened his mouth to tell Frodo that to even think of climbing was suicide, then heard the Hobbit say defeatedly, "No, that won't work. But there must be something I can do."

"It's all right," Boromir repeated. "Won't be much longer."

The silence dragged on and he tried not to shiver so much. A little while longer and he began to feel the cold was easing. He could almost imagine what it would be like to be warm again. An over-powering drowsiness washed through him. His head was suddenly too heavy, forcing him to lower his chin to his chest. His eyelids were equally heavy. Why should he struggle to stay awake? Frodo would not be harmed if he just closed his eyes for a moment….

'_Let the Hobbit fall. Let him drown. No one will ever know. No one would expect you to save him. It is hopeless. You know it's hopeless. Let him go and you can swim to shore, build a fire. Be warm again. You can tell them you tried. It's the truth. Tell them it was an accident. You tried to hold on. Show them the proof, show them how the chain snapped from about his throat. You'd held it so tightly. See, here's the Ring. You saved it. It's yours now. It's mine! Mine!!!_'

"Mine!! It should have been mine! It is only yours by unhappy chance! Give it to me!"

"Boromir, please…!"

A gargling child's voice. An irritating child's voice. Calling him in the middle of the night. Always robbing him of peace, stealing away what was his. Faramir calling to him again….

Faramir! His brother needed him. Where was he?

Boromir forced his eyes open, felt the muscles of his cold face contorted with killing rage. He was snarling wordlessly at someone. Who was trying to harm Faramir? He blinked, realising his left hand was clenched about a metal chain.

"Boromir, I can't breathe!"

'_Snap the chain. Take the Ring. Let the Hobbit drown if you won't strangle him!_'

Desperate, pain-filled, wide blue eyes stared pleadingly up at him. Frodo! Boromir's fist twisted the chain tightly into the Hobbit's throat. Somehow Frodo was no longer sitting safely atop his shoulders, instead Boromir held him half in and half out of the water, and the urge to drown him was all consuming. Some sane part of Boromir had surely resisted that command, else Frodo would already be dead, his neck snapped. Certainly if he had had two good hands to snatch at the Ring –'

"No!" he roared.

The memory returned with abrupt, vivid force. His father holding Faramir in the river, teaching him how to swim. But not patiently, kindly, the way he'd taught Boromir. Faramir complained that the water was cold, and it had been. Erupting into impatient violence, Denethor grabbed the five-year-old roughly, shaking him hard and calling him a weakling. Then he shoved him face first under the water, holding him down to reinforce the command, "Swim, or drown! It's your choice!"

Boromir had arrived in time to jump into the icy river and pull his terrified small brother to safety. He'd hated his father then. But Denethor had later come to his senses, claimed to be overcome by grief for the recently dead Finduilas. Boromir knew how insidious such excuses could become. They would eventually become truth, become the justification for unspeakable cruelties.

"Boromir?" Frodo no longer struggled. Boromir had released his hold, and now Frodo clung to him to avoid being swept away by the ferocious tide. "Are you all right? Can you hear me now?" There was a cruel red mark at his throat where the chain had dug deep.

Boromir's heart constricted with horror and pity. Shame swept through him, filled him with burning dread. How had he come to this? He was worse than his father. He gasped a sobbing breath, fighting against the urge to break down and weep uncontrollably. Tears stung his eyes and he blinked them angrily away. He drew Frodo up out of the water and held him close, ludicrously hoping to warm him.

"I am so sorry, Frodo! So sorry! I cannot ask forgiveness…."

"There's nothing to forgive! Boromir," Frodo shook Boromir's left arm with all the force he could muster, his voice rising to command. "Listen to me! To me! Not to it! It will destroy you with shame if you let it. You've made it very angry. Fight, Boromir! Never give up, you taught me that!"

Boromir shook his head. Maybe some of that was true…. No, don't make excuses. There could be no excuses, for excuses meant only a lack of strength, a lack of honour....

Frodo wrapped his arms about Boromir's neck, heaved himself up, and touched warm lips to Boromir's frozen cheek. Boromir blinked at him, so surprised that for the moment guilt fled.

"You're my friend, Boromir! My friend!" Frodo's fierce declaration was part sob. "You've helped me so many times! You will always be my friend! Don't listen to it!"

Boromir drew a huge lungful of shockingly cold air. He nodded, bent his head lower over the Hobbit's dripping curls, and whispered, "Thank you, Frodo. Thank you."

"It's all right," Frodo said, sniffing loudly. "It's all right. We'll be out of the river soon. I know we will. Just hang on. You can do it."

Boromir felt the irony of being given the morale-boosting speech rather than the other way round. That reminded him of Faramir. How much, how badly, he wanted to return to his brother, to his city, his people. But it could not be, not at the cost of an innocent life. Boromir knew he could not hold, not this time. Already the deadly drowsiness was reaching for him again. As soon as he drifted, the moment he relaxed, the cursed Ring would have him. It would force him to kill Frodo. There was only one way to stop it.

"Climb back onto my shoulders, Frodo," he said calmly. "You're right. All will be well. Aragorn and the others will soon be here."

If only he could believe that. But night was not far off, the sun was very low in the west, and if help had not come by now, it surely must come too late.

"I'll be higher, I'll have a better chance of spotting them coming," Frodo agreed as he clambered back to his perch, drenching Boromir's face with dripping river water.

Frodo would soon die, exposed and wet in the chill night air. Boromir was responsible for that, after fighting so long to keep him clear of the river, he had near drowned him. That knowledge sent a welcome, burning flare of rage through him. The Ring would not deceive him again. As soon as Frodo was secure as he could be, Boromir lifted his heavy, aching left arm and closed his fist about the arrow shaft embedded deep in the muscle of his right arm. Pain surged through the wound and flared high into his shoulder at the touch and he gasped involuntarily.

"What are you doing?" Frodo cried. "Don't touch that!"

"I'm not touching it – " Boromir said, gritting his teeth. Then, crying out with the agony of it, he wrenched the arrow barb from his flesh.

"– I'm pulling it out," he finished. The pain made his head swim. He hadn't thought of that, that he might pass out too soon….

'_Idiot._' He could almost hear Faramir's affectionate rebuke….

'No, don't wander, concentrate. Hold onto the arrow! Remember, you need to use it now.' He felt Frodo shift and lean down.

"What are you doing?" Boromir asked blearily.

"Getting my scarf to stop you bleeding to death, you great idiot."

"No need," he gasped. "Stay still or you'll slip."

Frodo indeed almost overbalanced as he struggled to untangle his scarf from beneath the hooded cloak and Boromir shoved him firmly back into place.

"Don't, Frodo! Keep still! The bleeding will stop. There's no need of bandaging."

"What do you mean, no need!" Frodo snapped. "The Ring's getting to you again, Boromir. Only now it's trying to kill you instead of me! Let me go! I must help you!"

Somehow Boromir managed to hold the struggling, wet Hobbit in place.

"It's not the Ring, Frodo. I assure you. It needs me alive, otherwise it's going back to the bottom of the river." He drew a breath, panting a little as the pain crested with his efforts. "And…. I think it finds that fate – boring."

"Then –" Frodo said hopefully, "You're not trying to kill yourself?"

Boromir managed something that sounded a little like a chuckle. "Why would I want to do that?"

"To stop the Ring using you to hurt me."

"No chance. I know its tricks now."

"Good," Frodo said. Then after a moment, "So why did you pull the arrow out?"

"To help Aragorn rescue us. You'll see. I need you to hang on tight, I have to move about a bit. Ready?"

"Ready," Frodo said. His hands were painfully tight at Boromir's throat, which was ironic, the Man thought, all things considered.

The flashing image of his fists trying to strangle the child-sized Frodo returned to Boromir, and he was glad, for it gave him the strength to move. He tugged his leather tunic away from his side until he had enough slack to work with, then held it experimentally against the join between log and rock beneath the surface of the swirling water. If he could drive the arrow through the leather and into the wood, angling it to wedge the shaft hard and secure between log and rock, it should hold, even after he lost consciousness. Even after he died...

The makeshift brace would ensure he remained upright, and thus keep Frodo out of the river until help could reach him. Frodo had shown incredible endurance to survive the Witch King's wounding, and the cave troll's attack, he might survive a night out here if help did not come until morning. Boromir knew he himself had no hope unless help arrived almost immediately. Even then, he had no idea how Aragorn and the others could possibly manage to get his unconscious body to shore. But he did know how they could find and reach Frodo.

"There," he announced, after his work was complete. "That will hold. Have no fear."

"Hold what?" Frodo wouldn't have been able to see the details of the brace from atop his perch.

"Help hold me in place."

Frodo sighed heavily. "If you were weakening, you shouldn't have pulled the arrow out."

"Frodo." Boromir spoke with quiet command even as his voice wavered and his vision faded. He must hurry to ensure his friend knew what to do. "This is our only chance."

"Your arm is bleeding badly. I can see it from here."

Boromir said more or less truthfully, "The cold will soon slow it. The water makes it look more. I need to tell you what to have Aragorn do to get you – us – out of here, just in case I'm, umm, too cold to help."

"You mean unconscious."

Boromir thought it wise to ignore that. "The shield kept us afloat before, it will do it again. But first you must use it to signal Aragorn." Boromir paused to regain his breath.

"Oh! Yes! If I move it up and down with the strap, I can flash the metal part to catch the sunlight, like a mirror," Frodo said, pleasing Boromir with his ability to follow despite his exhaustion and fear.

"Good," Boromir nodded. "Then, they'll need Sam's rope…."

*** SCENE BREAK

"There!" Legolas shouted.

But they had all seen it at the same moment, could not fail to see it. Something flashing brightly and repeatedly, shining gold amid the white water and the long shadows cast by the gorge. That was no natural light. Someone was signaling them!

"I told you!" Gimli was all but doing a jig, his happiness irrepressible. Merry, Pippin and Sam had come together in a group hug. Aragorn knew they were praying that Frodo too was alive. It could only be Boromir who was signaling so strongly. He must be using his shield, Aragorn realized, impressed as ever by the Man's resourcefulness.

Legolas came panting back to the group, and Aragorn's smile faded as he noted the Elf's worried frown.

"Frodo's not with him, is he?" Sam asked tearfully.

"It is Frodo who signals us," Legolas corrected. Sam broke into a delighted grin that immediately disappeared with Pippin's "What about Boromir?"

"I do not know. Frodo is sitting atop his shoulders, but – "

"Frodo is atop his shoulders?" Gimli said happily. "Then the lad must be all right!"

"He's not moving," Legolas explained. "Come, we must hurry."

Gimli grunted and scowled a little at the Elf's back. "I'm sure he's all right. He's the one in the water, so it makes sense that Frodo would be signalling us from the higher position."

"That's true!" Merry turned happily to Pippin. "At any rate, they're alive, Pip, Sam, they're alive!"

The mood was more subdued when they at last drew level to the place where their friends were stranded. It was far out in the centre of the river, and white water raged about them. Not far behind the clump of rocks and logs against which Boromir had braced himself Aragorn could plainly see the hungry swirl of a whirlpool. One slip and the thing would swallow them. How Boromir was still on his feet at all, Aragorn had no idea. It had been a long time, far too long for him to remain immersed in such icy water, wounded and fighting so powerful a current while taking Frodo's weight….

"He's seen us," Legolas reported, one hand shading his eyes as he peered into the lowering sun and the mist coming up from the rapids. "Frodo has seen us." He paused, sounding puzzled as he added, "He's changing his signal."

"He's reflecting the sunlight down onto the water," Aragorn noted. "What?"

"He's trying to tell us something," Merry frowned. "I don't know what he means."

"It looks the way the moon does when it's full and it makes a path all the way across the water," Pippin said. "Like a snake."

"Or a rope!" Sam exclaimed, "He needs the Elven rope, he knows it's special! It can save them, it's the only thing we have that might be long enough to reach."

"Of course, Sam!" Aragorn watched as he sat and pulled it from his pack. This was a plan that held real hope. Then he frowned as something occurred to him. They could secure their end to a tree, but –

"How will they tie it off over there?" Gimli had also seen the problem.

"Boromir will have thought of that, too," Legolas said. "Get the line to them and we'll soon see."

Aragorn nodded, and could only hope that would prove true. Whatever Boromir's plan, it would surely have depended on him being able to assist, yet he still hadn't moved. Which meant he could not move….

Sam handed the rope to him and Aragorn was very glad that he had insisted Sam and Frodo must stay with him rather than rest at the place to which they had delivered the first boat. The danger of them being attacked while alone had been too great despite the shelter there, and now it meant they need lose no time in going for the desperately needed Elven rope.

The refuge Boromir had found for them at the end of the portage track might well make the difference between life and death for him at least. The Man remained completely still, slumped limply forward while Frodo continued to signal. Legolas tied off the rope to an arrow and began searching for the best place from which to fire it. He spotted a clump of boulders higher up the embankment back the way they had come. That would make the best perch from which to cast the rope far out into the river and hope it would be carried downstream against the same snag that had saved Boromir and Frodo.

Legolas' aim was as perfect as always, and everyone waited, tense and silent, watching the drift of their end of the rope, unable to see its full length with its shifting Elven colours against the churning water. Legolas however, could see.

"It's going to reach them," he reported with relief. "There's plenty of slack."

Frodo had stopped signaling, it seemed that had indeed been what he was trying to tell them. They could just see him, moving, leaning forward a little, arm outstretched. He had seen the rope coming toward him.

"No," Sam moaned. "Be careful! The Ring, remember the Ring! It will pull you down!"

Aragorn hadn't thought of that. He glanced anxiously from Sam back to the drama in the river.

"He's slipping!" Legolas said breathlessly. Sam threw his hands up to cover his face. Merry and Pippin who couldn't see well enough to spot Frodo watched Legolas instead. The Elf drew a great breath of relief and reported, "He's safe. He's righted himself again, atop Boromir's shoulders. But –" Legolas turned to meet Aragorn's grim regard.

"He can't reach the rope." Gimli finished.

"I'm going out to them," Aragorn said and sat to pull off his boots. The Hobbits swiveled as one to stare at him, their expressions a mix of horror and desperate hope.

"No one can out-swim that current," Legolas said flatly.

Aragorn left off tugging at his boots and looked up at his friend. "You're right." He tilted his chin to his right, upstream. "But if I go a fair distance back along the bank before I enter the river, I'll have more time to angle across the current."

"You'll have more time to drown!" Gimli said, brutally honest. "There's no use in it, Laddie."

Aragorn let loose a foul oath that startled the Hobbits. They had never heard him curse so savagely. "I will not leave them to drown!"

"Something's happening out there," Legolas interrupted.

***SCENE BREAK

"Boromir! Boromir!"

Desperate, trembling violently with cold, Frodo tried to rouse the unconscious Man. No amount of shaking helped. He began to fear Boromir dead. He leaned forward as far as he dared, enough to place his ear to the Man's mouth. A whisper of warm air was his reward. His friend still breathed. Frodo cast another quick, hungry glance at the Elven rope he could see so near yet so far. It bobbed on the water at Boromir's waist, the trailing end long enough that it passed by the rock and on down stream, unable to go further as it was anchored on shore. If only he could reach and secure it! He might just be able to – if the Ring did not again conspire to drown him.

Now that he no longer needed to signal, he had let go of the long shield baldric strap. It bobbed on the current, still tethering the shield to Boromir's belt, awaiting the next stage of the rescue. 'A Hobbit-sized coracle', Boromir had called it. Frodo's stiff face curved into a smile of painful affection. He was so terribly weary, he almost did not care for his own life. But Boromir – the Man had been all too willing to give his life for Frodo, and too, seemed unable to forgive himself for temporarily falling prey to the Ring, even though he'd won that battle so many times already. Frodo plainly recalled the many instances of kindness shown by the big Gondorian to them all, but especially to Merry and Pippin who otherwise could so easily have been made to feel like excess baggage.

New determination flared through Frodo's veins, he would not allow Boromir to die! Especially not while believing himself to have failed. It was too cruel a fate. Gathering his courage, Frodo set himself to do the thing he'd dreaded trying – to use pain to wake the Man. Gritting his teeth over a surge of nausea, he leaned down far enough to see the blood still running freely from the wound in Boromir's upper arm. His stomach heaved, but he lifted his leg and drove his foot into the wound with as much force as he dared.

Boromir shuddered like a gaffed fish and gasped a huge breath of shocked pain. Frodo reinforced that shock with a second kick into the river that sent cold water splashing the Man's face.

"Boromir!" he shouted with all his strength. "They're here! They've sent the rope! The rope, Boromir! You must get the rope! I can't reach it!"

"Frodo?" It was a raw hoarse cough barely recognizable as Boromir's voice. "They're here?"

Frodo wrapped both arms tight about Boromir in a hugely relieved hug, then kissed the top of his head.

"They saw the signal. They sent the rope. Look down. It's right there. Can you reach it?"

Boromir nodded and Frodo understood he was saving breath for this last pitiful effort, had no strength at all for talk. At first, watching the Man's struggles, Frodo thought it hopeless. Boromir had obviously lost all feeling in his hands. He could only swing his left arm in an arc through the water and try to hook his clawed fingers on to the trailing rope. The rope touched his gloved hand, but he could not close the fingers about it. Again and again, he tried, and Frodo could feel his great heart labouring beneath ribs that strained for breath with each effort. Worse, he could feel the Man's legs trembling, feel his booted feet slip and scrabble for purchase. They would certainly both have lost the battle with the river if not for Boromir's ingenious method of pinning himself to their rocky refuge.

Then, suddenly, it seemed to Frodo that both the river and the rope conspired to aid the Man, working in unison. A surge of dark water came racing toward them and the rope leaped to its crest, leaped higher still to ride a foaming wave that formed itself into thousands of white blossoms atop watery branches stirred by a spring breeze. The Elven rope gleamed, leaped again and snagged on the clasps of Boromir's surcoat. And there it remained. Boromir shivered and shuddered, barely aware of what had happened. It took a moment for him to realise there was no longer need for him to swing his deadened hand through the water. Frodo could sense him blinking dazedly at the rope, too frozen to remember what he should do now. Even if he could recall their plan, Frodo knew the Man's strength was spent. He had nothing left to give, was near dead on his feet.

"I can do it now, Boromir," Frodo said with much more confidence than he felt. "Rest. I have it."

His fingers closed about the rope and he pulled it gratefully to himself, wrapped the long trailing loop about his waist. His own fingers were so frozen that he doubted he could tie a knot. But it seemed there was no need. The rope seemed to have a life of its own, coiling twice tightly about Frodo's waist.

"You've g-got it?" Boromir stuttered.

"Yes. It's secure about my waist."

Frodo felt the Man relax and let out a long sigh. "Go. Use the shield. It will…."

The words faded out completely. Boromir slumped, was again unconscious.

"I won't leave you to die, Boromir. It was never going to be that way." Frodo kept talking in an effort to push back the fear that may otherwise have immobilized him more surely than the icy water. Boromir had intended that Frodo now fix the line to the shield, climb in and have Aragorn and the others safely haul him to shore. When Frodo had asked, "What about you?" the Man had said they could resend the line and the floating shield and he, being an excellent swimmer, would have no trouble saving himself. Frodo had snorted disbelief. Near fainting even as he had spoken, Boromir and Frodo both knew that was a lie.

Now, rather than abandoning his good friend to certain death, Frodo would disobey him. He would secure the line on this end, and wait for help to come to them both along its taut length. With the rope secured about him and hopefully ready to prevent him being swept away, Frodo dared climb lower over Boromir's broad chest until he could hook the fingers of his left hand into the Man's belt.

The icy water seemed even colder now, Frodo could not imagine how Boromir had endured so long. Shuddering, wracking shivers annoyed Frodo as he tried to steady his right hand and unravel the rope from about his waist. He felt naked without it, and somehow reassured all at once, as if it was telling him it would snare him again should he slip. He reached with the trailing end beneath water, feeling for the arrow-brace firmly wedged between rock and wood. It was the only place to which the rope could be tied off and anchored for the rescue.

Boromir was no longer shivering, though at one stage, the spasms had been so violent that Frodo had had to hold tight for fear of falling. Frodo knew the lack of shivering now was a very bad sign. The cold-sickness had reached its most deadly phase. Boromir must reach warmth within minutes or surely he would perish. Then he felt it, the rope again moving of its own accord, knotting itself without his assistance about the arrow shaft, secure between it and the rock.

***SCENE BREAK

"He's done it!" Legolas cried joyfully, slapping Gimli hard enough on the back to make even the solid dwarf stagger back a little. "He's secured his end of the rope."

"To what?" Gimli asked, rubbing his shoulder and trying to scowl at the Elf amid an emerging smile.

"It doesn't matter," Aragorn said with both impatience and relief. "If Boromir told him where to tie it off, it will hold. They planned this while they waited. I'm sure Boromir means us to float Frodo back on his shield. Now –" He stood barefooted, had pulled off his tunic leaving only his lightweight breeches. "It's my turn to help."

"Our turn," Legolas corrected, coiling leather lines about his shoulder.

"We can get a fire started," Merry said, "Come on, Pip. They're going to need it."

"I have the leather ties from the boats. We may need them." Legolas sounded confident, but his blue eyes were dark with worry. "If Boromir remains unconscious, you'll need help securing him."

"The rope won't break," Sam said, testing it nonetheless where they had tied off their end to a small tree. "The Lady was sure of that. And she said its knots won't come loose until you want them to."

Aragorn drew a breath, took hold of the rope that was now strung taut and high, clear a foot or more above the river all the way out to the rocky island. He met the Hobbit's eyes with a smile. "We can trust she is not wrong." He slid into the icy current, Legolas following.

It was much harder going than he had anticipated trying to overhand himself along the rope. The river heaved and tossed with unpredictable direction and force, and he swallowed water when one huge wave swamped him. He could not imagine how Boromir, wounded, had managed to keep himself afloat, let alone Frodo as well. He moved as quickly as he dared along the taut length of Elven rope, until finally through the growing gloom he could at last meet Frodo's desperate eyes. The Hobbit was soaked through and shivering uncontrollably, his face beneath the hooded cloak stark white pinched with blue. Perched so high, his breath was clearly visible, fogging about him with each exhalation. But Boromir…. There was too much mist from the foaming water to see clearly.

Dreading what he might find, Aragorn dared take a closer look. Fear rippled through him – surely the Man was dead? He was slumped as far forward as the something pinioning him upright would allow, his face a terrible drawn grey mask, his eyes closed, bruised and shadowed. There was an ugly tear in the mail and cloth of his upper right sleeve, the material soaked with dark staining blood. Aragorn hastily grabbed hold of the Man's belt as the current pulled him away.

Thus secured he was able to rest his ear close against Boromir's slack mouth. He felt the warmth of a faint exhalation and let out his own breath in a great sigh of relief.

Legolas arrived to begin tying a leather line from Frodo to the Elven anchor line. Taking in Boromir's appearance, the Elf's eyes widened in fear. He exchanged a grave look with Aragorn who assured him, "He lives. But we must hurry."

Aragorn returned his attention upward to the shivering Hobbit and gently squeezed Frodo's arm. "You did well to secure the line!" he congratulated.

"B-Boromir's idea," Frodo stuttered.

At Aragorn's prompting, he carefully moved one stiff leg from where it had been tightly tucked under Boromir's left armpit. Aragorn saw then that Boromir's left arm in turn was firmly wedged behind the log, jammed between it and the rock. He had indeed thought of every possible means of keeping Frodo out of the river, even after he himself lost consciousness. Yet that one arm-lock would not be enough to hold him with his back square to the rock, away from any danger that the river could drag him free. Whatever else the Man had used to secure himself, it was not visible. Aragorn left that puzzle for the moment, to tend to Frodo.

Boromir's shield was, as Aragorn had expected, ready and bobbing on the tide like a small coracle at its mooring. Boromir had used the shield's long baldric as the mooring-line, looping the broad leather first through his own belt. Aragorn could guess that, after securing the Elven rope Frodo had orders to climb on, and allow his friends on shore to tow him to safety.

"I'm –n-not g-going," Frodo said as firmly as chattering teeth would allow. Aragorn and Legolas glanced at him in surprise and he finished, "W-without him."

"Nor will we leave him," Aragorn nodded. "Legolas will help you and I will aid Boromir. We will go back along the line together."

"We have brought more lines with us," Legolas told him encouragingly. "Here," he held up a second dripping length of leather. "Aragorn will use this to tie Boromir to himself. I have secured you to myself. Now, we will move you onto the shield. You need not enter the water. I swear you will be safe. As will Boromir."

Frodo peered into the shadows and saw Legolas was as good as his word, the leather wound tight about him was tied off about Legolas' waist. Even should he slip, he would not go far. Frodo's expression brightened a little as he saw Aragorn readying another line to secure Boromir in like fashion. "He'll be all right now?"

"So I hope." Despite the intense cold that fogged their breathing, Boromir was still bleeding heavily from the wound in his upper arm. With the Ring close at hand, Sauron's ill-will had greater power to harm the Man. Boromir had not a moment to spare, the rescue must go exactly as planned. Aragorn hooked one leg about Boromir's knee, holding himself close and freeing his own hands to tie the safety line and was reassured again when he felt the soft, warm exhalations of Boromir's breathing against his cold ear. He had some trouble getting the safety rope threaded about Boromir's waist, so tightly was the Man pressed against the rock by both his own as yet undetermined method and the burgeoning, constant push of the river.

Aragorn worked as quickly as cold hands would permit to secure another safety line between the coracle and Legolas, preferring not to risk any chance of losing it to the flood even though Legolas would probably be able to keep Frodo safely afloat unaided. The coracle would keep Frodo out of the water and that was by far the better option. Legolas unclasped the shield baldric from Boromir's belt and fixed it to the Elven shore rope, the strong broad leather making a good loop that would slide readily along the rope's taut length, making it easier to tow as he swam. With all ready at last, Aragorn and Legolas reached for the Hobbit, taking one arm each.

Slowly sliding down from atop his human refuge into Legolas' reaching arms Frodo's expression was a grimness bordering on outright panic, his gaze fixed in terror on the wide stretch of surging white water between he and shore. The makeshift coracle must appear a death trap, especially to one who had lost both parents to drowning in much less dangerous circumstance.

"Come, you will be safe," Aragorn said as he urged the shivering Hobbit down, "Hold to your courage and a warm fire and hot tea will soon be yours."

Frodo's face somehow managed to grow more pale, a ghastly white tinged with the green of nausea. But he nodded, his eyes watching Boromir's still face, and Aragorn knew the Hobbit would do what he must more for the Man's sake than his own. He closed his eyes and slid slowly down, then at Legolas' softly repeated, "Let go, now, Frodo. We have you," the Hobbit settled awkwardly atop the shield. His small hands, bereft of the hold they'd maintained for so long, snatched desperately at the edges of the shield instead. Still, Frodo kept his eyes screwed shut.

Aragorn let out a breath, glad that stage was over. Boromir's boat-shield bobbed sharply up and down on the violent swell and would be much more unstable as they entered the open river. Aragorn was very glad that Frodo had not been present to hear Boromir's report of the deadly whirlpool and did not know it was so close at their backs. One false move –

Boromir's arm suddenly slipped free from behind the log and Aragorn made a wild grab as the Man's body began to pivot about the remaining, unseen anchor. Aragorn's fingers dug like talons into Boromir's wounded arm and he cared not even had the other Man been able to feel it. His heart raced and his mouth went bone dry despite the water all about. He exchanged one quick glance with Legolas who had also grabbed hold. The leather safety line would have ensured Boromir was not swept away from them, but unconscious, it would not save him from drowning where he was tethered. Only his right side remained pinioned. Freeing him would be the most dangerous part of the rescue.

Aragorn drew his knife then took a deep breath, needing to steady himself as much as to cut Boromir free. He gave Legolas a nervous now-or-never smile and The Elf said calmly, "I have him."

With his own line holding him against the current, his blade in his right hand and his left feeling along Boromir's right side for the unseen pinion, Aragorn hunted blindly in the water for the place where the Man's surcoat was drawn out and tight. Boromir could only have somehow hooked the strong leather to some protrusion of the rock, surely. Then, the bare tips of Aragorn's otherwise gloved fingers met something odd. It took him a moment to realize it was the fletching of an arrow. His jaw dropped a little in surprise. Boromir had pulled the arrow from his arm and used it as an anchor?

"Only you, Boromir, my friend. Only you."

He squeezed the other Man's drifting left arm in a gesture of fierce pride and deep affection. Boromir would have known how much more at risk such a move would place him, yet it had been the only way to keep Frodo safe should he himself, inevitably, lose consciousness. Or die.

All through their long days of journeying together Aragorn had noted Boromir's genius for improvisation, his resourcefulness and hard-won experience repeatedly coming to their aid. Ever he had put himself last to ensure others' survival.

'_You cannot die, my brother!_' Aragorn thought fiercely, hacking and slicing at the leather tunic as violently as he dared while not wanting to inadvertently wound the Man further. '_You will not die!_' The leather tore free as much as was sliced and Aragorn sheathed his blade.

"What was it?" Legolas asked.

"The arrow. He hooked it through his surcoat and wedged it into the log-jam."

"The arrow? From his arm?" Legolas said, astonished into stating the obvious.

"From his arm," Aragorn said, smiling a little as he moved to take Boromir from Legolas' careful grip.

"I wish that surprised me," the Elf said sadly. "Let us hurry!"

Legolas turned so that he could swim alongside the shield-coracle and drag it along the anchor line that would keep them safe as could be from the tossing river. His left hand rested on the makeshift boat that could not be trusted to stay upright amid the violent turmoil of the rapids and with his right he pulled overhand along the line

Aragorn did not need to be told that Legolas' superior senses had noted a further decline in Boromir's strength. Aragorn intended to haul Boromir up against his own chest, one arm under his chin to keep Boromir's mouth and nose clear of the water, but something snagged Boromir and brought him up short.

Legolas felt the tug on the line and looked back. And, at that moment, the anchor line suddenly whipped free, caught by the ferocious rapids. The arrow shaft had snapped. Boromir was pulled savagely down and away, yanked about by the unseen snare. Aragorn recovered in time to grab at the safety line that tied them together, but he only succeeded in causing Boromir to pivot more sharply and the Man's head hit the rock hard and he slipped beneath had pulled him back now also dragged Aragorn under. Ducking down he fought desperately to see what it was, and following the taut line of Boromir's body, soon found it – a booted foot caught tight in the crevice between rock and wood.

Feeding slack from the line, Aragorn dove deeper, aware Boromir was drowning, aware Legolas could not turn back to aid them without risking losing Frodo to the river. The evil will working against them had timed its strike with deadly accuracy. Frantically, Aragorn gripped Boromir's boot and heaved. His own body's buoyancy worked against him, constantly dragging him back and up. He could not apply enough force. He wanted to curse and weep in frustration.

In a flash of silver light something knifed toward him. It was the trailing end of the Elven rope, somehow defying the current. No, Aragorn saw, the river was working with the rope, eddying downward to carry it to him. He could feel Gondor's call to Boromir in his very veins, beating with the rushing tide of his blood and flowing in the mighty river that linked them to their home. The rope reached down, coiled about Boromir's lower leg and heaved. Boromir floated free, Aragorn surfacing to wrap an arm under the Man's jaw. It might be a futile effort, for Boromir could surely no longer be breathing, had swallowed too much water.

From somewhere just ahead, he could hear Frodo's wailing cry of "No!" Legolas had somehow managed to keep the coracle afloat and Frodo safely atop it despite the incident. Aragorn struggled, kicking out and trying to find strength to drive himself and Boromir forward through the icy water, There was little point in signalling Gimli to haul when the now free end would slip through the looped tether. And, though the river seemed to suddenly be much calmer, Aragorn's strength was spent, it took all he had simply to keep them both afloat. Something bumped him on the shoulder and he turned to find a length of driftwood, wrapped about by the trailing end of the Elven rope. Apparently not satisfied with finding that aid for them, the rope moved again, looping itself until it was securely wrapped about both men, tying them to the floating wood.

The rope would hold, and the river would not let them sink. Aragorn tugged sharply on the line once, twice, three times, giving the signal to haul in. It barely seemed to need Gimli's assistance, already pulling he and Boromir and Legolas and Frodo, swiftly toward shore.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three Healing

"He's not breathing!" Aragorn gasped as moments later his bare feet touched bottom. Legolas had already turned back, and Gimli strode a few steps into the powerful current before remembering he could not swim.

Legolas heaved the unconscious Man across his shoulders and bodily carried him out of the water, up and over the rocky bank. Gimli aided Aragorn who staggered after on unsteady legs. Legolas rolled Boromir onto his side and pulled his arms back sharply. Muddy river water poured from Boromir's mouth and nose. Legolas listened, then pumped the Man's arms and chest urgently once more. A little more water spilled from his blue-white lips.

"He's still not breathing!" Frodo cried, crawling on his hands and knees closer to Boromir. "Aragorn," he looked up pleadingly at the Man. "You must save him! You must!"

The other Hobbits stood stricken, staring silent and tearful at their unmoving friend.

Aragorn did what he could, bending to place his mouth to Boromir's and try to force air into the Man's lungs. Boromir's chest did not move, the air was not reaching him. Aragorn dug his fingers deep into the Man's throat, but found no obstruction.

"Live, Boromir, _live_!" He pounded a fist into Boromir's chest. "Gondor calls to you, I can feel it. Live, my brother, and together we will save our people!" Gathering himself to at last breach an inner wall of fear and self-doubt, he added fiercely, "_Your King_ commands it!"

Boromir shuddered, Aragorn could sense the Man's spirit fighting mightily to return, fighting but blocked.

"It's the Ring," Frodo said, his tone so murderous and chill that at first Aragorn was uncertain who had spoken. "The Ring wants him dead."

Lurching to his feet, Frodo stumbled to the edge of the embankment despite Sam and Gimli's uncertain attempts at supporting and stopping him.

"You will not have him!" Frodo snarled, tugging the Ring and its chain up and over his head. He held it out over the swirling river water. White froth blew on the climbing breeze, appearing to Aragorn's weary eyes like hundreds of tiny white flowers. They rose up about Frodo's head and The Ring suddenly dimmed before their beauty.

"Let him go, or I will give you back to the river!" Frodo's threat was a steady, icy certainty though tears streamed down his pale cheeks. "I don't care what happens to you! You will not have Boromir! Rot in the river for another thousand years!" He drew his arm back for the throw.

Boromir gave a gargling gasping inhalation that broke to a series of wracking, choking coughs. Frodo turned about and stared at the Man, then his legs gave way and he crumpled, sobbing, the Ring clasped tight in his fist. Sam came and sat beside him and wrapped his arms about him. Merry and Pippin's eyes were twin wells of bottomless pain, barely able to imagine the load that crippled their friend and that now had tried to kill Boromir.

"Quickly, now!" Gimli urged, shaking them all from shock. "Before the cold finishes what the enemy started. Inside, in to the fire!"

Legolas heaved Boromir up once more, Gimli carried Frodo, Sam hovering at his side. Pippin and Merry braced themselves one on each side to aid Aragorn who found his legs would barely keep him upright let alone moving. It seemed an unnaturally long way up the slope through the scrub and into the hollow that hid the entrance.

Aragorn ducked under the lintel, remembering his surprise and pleasure of bare hours earlier. Could it have been so little time since Boromir had stood here, trying to hide an amused grin as Merry and Pippin bounced about him, pleased with what they termed "a cheery surprise for you, Aragorn!"

It certainly had been, for this was no cave, but rather the foundations of the old portage way station and boat house. It was overgrown with moss and a few vines wandered here and there through chinks in the walls about the open entryway. But the floor remained, solid and dry, there was a fire pit which had been constructed in more recent times, a water cistern, and most amazing, a formerly hidden supply barrel. It was a much warmer, drier shelter than any cavern bolt-hole could have provided.

Aragorn had stood speechless and probably slack-jawed for so long that Boromir finally snorted a laugh and slapped him on the back, saying, "A welcome home present for you from my brother and his rangers."

Aragorn had shaken his head and smiled as he met green eyes sparkling mischief and pride. "You knew this was here?"

"Not exactly. I'd heard of it, vague references, no more. Apparently, the rangers have hunted out and supplied several places like this where they might find themselves stranded, perhaps with wounded men."

Aragorn's eyebrows had risen and he gave an approving nod. "Good thinking." He had turned to find that Merry and Pippin had already scampered outside again, calling to Sam and Frodo to come see. "Tonight we break our journey in comfort. Maybe Sam can find us another Coney stew!"

"And regale us – again -- about how much better it would be if only he had --"

" – Taters!" Both men had said, laughing together.

Aragorn vividly remembered that laugh, the radiance of Boromir's happiness lending strength for the portage task ahead.

Legolas very carefully lay an unconscious Boromir down on one of the leather boat hides that had been placed very near the fire. There was a much softer mound of blankets at its side, but should he be placed there now, his dripping clothing would soon negate their usefulness.

"Come on, Strider," Merry and Pippin tugged at his arms, "Don't stop now or you'll fall down." They always reverted to calling him Strider when they were worried or distracted.

Aragorn nodded and staggered closer, then sat back on his heels, basking in the warmth that washed over him. Never had he found the heat of a roaring fire more welcoming. The Hobbits had been busy as he and Legolas fought the river. All that could be prepared had been. Water boiled over the flames. Branches had been propped to hold wet clothing to dry. Blankets were spread, and all the dry clothing they possessed between them was stacked in readiness to add more warmth or be used as towels. Legolas, who was not affected by cold, nevertheless dried himself quickly before bending to tend Boromir. Aragorn was grateful and envious of the Elf's immunity to the chill.

"Water off a duck's butt," Gimli commented, shaking his head and giving Legolas a mock scowl. As ever the Dwarf had found a means of easing the worry and tension. Merry and Pippin went to their knees to struggle with the clasps on Boromir's sodden leather surcoat. Aragorn moved closer, began trying to remove Boromir's sodden boots, but his cold fingers were too clumsy.

"You're dripping water all over him," Gimli said. "And I'd say he's had enough of that. Get into some dry clothes, Laddie. Here." The Dwarf handed him some cloth to use as a towel and lay a dry tunic and socks at his side.

Aragorn nodded, unable to take his eyes from the scarlet wash of blood and a swelling purple bruise on Boromir's forehead, a stark, fearful contrast to an otherwise impossibly white, still face. More vivid red blood ran in a thin rivulet from the ugly torn edges of the arrow wound gouged in his upper right arm. Unconscious, badly injured, it was a painful comparison to the laughing Man of that morning.

'_He almost drowned. I should have been able to hold on to him._' Aragorn's throat closed over, the raw emotion swamping him a partner to overwhelming fatigue. There had been such strength in Boromir's shoulders as he'd heaved the boat along the portage track…. Had their positions been reversed in the river, Boromir would have been able to hold on to him.

"He'll be all right," Gimli said in answer to one of the Hobbit's worried comments. "He's as strong as an ox and twice as stubborn."

"Is that tea ready, Merry?" Legolas asked.

"The water's boiled, but I'm not sure…. Aragorn, is this enough?" He displayed a small hand, the palm open and covered with dried athelas.

Aragorn blinked at him a moment, his mind only slowly coming back to clarity. "No. Add twice that."

Merry nodded and obeyed, taking another handful and dropping the leaves into the steaming water. Immediately, the clean fresh scent washed away all Aragorn's weariness. Aragorn pulled a blessedly warm dry tunic over his head, then sat and pulled on the even more comforting dry woolen socks. Arwen had made those for him. And there had been others made for Boromir whose feet were much bigger than Aragorn's – or so Arwen and her lady friends had repeatedly informed him, amid much giggling.

"Get this into you, Laddie." Gimli held a tin mug of athelas tea for him.

Aragorn shook his head. "Save it for – "

"There's more in the stores here," Pippin said as he struggled to aid Legolas in removing Boromir's sodden tunic. "Merry and I found it when we were looking for second breakfast this morning."

"Even if not," Gimli grunted, "you will drink it. You're no use to him half frozen like this." Aragorn took the tea and swallowed, closing his eyes in sheer bliss as the warmth flooded his veins, restoring his strength and clearing his head.

Gimli cursed sharply, burning himself a little as he juggled heated rocks from the fire and wrapped them in one of his old leather shirts. He carried the package to Sam who packed it about Frodo's feet. For the first time since the rescue, Frodo's expression eased into sighing relief. Gimli set to the difficult job of wrestling the leather boots from Boromir's swollen feet. That done, he claimed more heated stones and waited impatiently as Legolas finished thoroughly drying the Man while Merry and Pippin muttered and cursed, working in unison to finally pull socks onto his blue-tinged feet. Sam, Aragorn noted, was already feeding the herbal infusion to Frodo who, stripped and completely swathed in blankets, sat as close as possible to the pallet prepared for Boromir, his back to the fire.

Frodo ignored Sam's repeated efforts to have him rest atop the second, smaller pallet on the other side of the fire. It seemed Frodo was determined not to rest until certain Boromir was out of danger. Legolas pulled a dry tunic over Boromir's head and swathed him in a double layer of blankets then rolled him gently onto the ready made bedding. Not satisfied with that as the Man's body convulsed with great wracking bouts of shivering mixed with groaning coughs, Legolas sat at Boromir's back and drew him up against his own bare, warm chest. He wrapped his arms about him and Boromir relaxed a little, his head lolling limp against the Elf's shoulder. Gimli collected both Boromir and Legolas' Elven cloaks and tented them about the pair, Legolas smiling his thanks.

Then, they all looked expectantly to Aragorn, the healer.

"Well done," Aragorn told them, managing to muster a smile. "Pippin, Merry, do you know where I put my –?"

Pippin scurried over to hand him the leather wrapped parcel that contained the medical supplies before he could finish asking for it. "Did you find anything other than athelas this morning?"

"There are other herbs here," Merry told him. "And a bottle of some kind of smelly stuff, and bandages. A lot of bandages."

"Smelly stuff?"

"This." Pippin displayed a small stone bottle and pulled the stopper.

Aragorn sniffed. "Alcohol."

"Makes a good antiseptic," Pippin said, remembering wayside lessons.

"Indeed." Aragorn took a tin mug of hot athelas tea, sat close by Boromir, and held it to the Man's lips. It was no use forcing it down his throat, he did not need a repeat bout of coughing and choking. His lungs had already suffered enough abuse. "Drink, Boromir. Come, hear me. Drink."

The steam vapours wafted upward, leaving droplets on the Man's pale flesh, beading the damp hair at his brow and the lightly bearded jaw. His shadowed eyelids flickered and he moaned softly.

"Yes, that's it, Laddie," Gimli threw in his own plea. "Come back to us."

"Please," Pippin sniffed. "Please, Boromir, you must drink it."

"You know Aragorn's magic tea always works miracles," Merry put in, leaning closer.

The slack lines faded from about Boromir's mouth, and some colour returned, taking his pallor from the pure white of snow to the dirty grey of an overcast sky. His eyes opened a crack and he immediately flinched away from the bright leap and flare of firelight.

"Drink," Aragorn urged and gently pushed the rim of the mug against the Man's lips. Boromir swallowed, once, twice, then sighed with the same sound of relief as had Frodo. He squinted blearily toward the faces gathered about him. Aragorn could plainly see the marked difference in the size of the pupils of the Man's eyes. It was a fairly serious concussion, especially when combined with the cold sickness. Boromir had a long night ahead, and they must guard and watch over him to make sure he did not slip deeply into a sleep from which he would never wake.

Again, Boromir flinched away from the bright firelight, trying to turn his head this time, and grunting with the pain of movement.

"Faramir?" he said hoarsely, "Snuff out those cursed candles. Oh, my head…! How much ale did I drink?"

Gimli snorted relieved amusement. Frodo sat straighter, listening keenly, his expression puzzled and worried as he shared a frown with Sam. Merry and Pippin sagged then shook each other's shoulders in celebration. Aragorn and Legolas were less sanguine. It was a dangerous sign of disorientation.

"Is it the Ring?" Aragorn turned a little to ask Frodo. "Do you think it still seeks to harm him?"

Frodo shook his head, his wide blue eyes dark beneath the shadows of his pale, blanket-hooded face fixed on Boromir's expression of bleary-eyed confusion. "No. It's gone quiet." The Hobbit's voice took on a sharp satisfaction Aragorn had never heard from him before. "Boromir won. It's not used to people winning. It's sulking."

"Faramir?" Boromir muttered again. "It's still too bright…."

Gimli, practical as ever, immediately stood to block the shifting light from Boromir's eyes.

"Ahh, better…." The Man seemed not to have heard, or at least been able to follow, the exchange regarding the Ring.

"The light hurts his eyes?" Pippin asked anxiously.

"It will pass," Aragorn assured him.

"Why is his head bleeding?" Merry asked.

"I was wondering the same thing," Gimli said.

Aragorn looked down at the mug of tea he still cradled in his hands. "I lost my grip in the water. He slipped and hit his head on the rock."

"Oh." Merry and Pippin chorused and what they didn't say spoke volumes.

Legolas shook his head. "Aragorn did well to save him when the anchor broke, then something snared Boromir's foot and he had to dive to free it."

"Oh!" There was an entirely different inflection this time.

"It was the Ring," Frodo repeated. "It was working against us from the first moment in the water."

"That must have been … difficult," Gimli said with typical understatement. "You need to rest, Frodo. Come, Sam, let's kept him to bed."

Frodo's protests were half hearted and he groaned relief as at last he was able to lie prone on a soft warm bed. Boromir muttered something and Frodo looked to Aragorn to ask, "He will be all right?"

"Yes. We'll watch him. You must rest."

Sam nodded. "Strider's right. Mister Boromir won't be happy when he fully wakes tomorrow only to find you've gone and made yourself ill despite all his hard work."

Frodo smiled at his friend. "True, Sam. But you must promise to wake me if he gets worse." Sam didn't look happy but he agreed. Frodo closed his eyes and was asleep almost immediately.

Aragorn dug into his medical pack, found some swabs and tried to wipe the blood from Boromir's face. The Man swore and pulled away from him, despite Legolas' attempt to keep him still.

"Leave it, Faramir! Let go, Garad! I swear you two are worse than mother hens! It's just a bloody hangover…."

"It's Aragorn and Legolas," Merry corrected.

"And you don't have a hang over, Boromir," Pippin added. "You're …. Umm…." He looked to Aragorn.

"Concussed."

"Oh." Boromir stilled and allowed Aragorn to clean up the cut and apply salve that stopped the bleeding. "Did I drink Karan's new brew, then?

Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas snorted amusement. Puzzled, Pippin asked, "Who?"

"Karan," Boromir muttered, suddenly drowsy. "Best and most dangerous brewer in all Gondor."

"Hmmm," Gimli rumbled. "I must meet this Man. Compare techniques." He winked. "Try his ale."

Aragorn held more tea to Boromir's lips, needing him better restored before sleeping. "No more of your foul teas, brother! I'll throw up." He squinted blindly toward Aragorn. "Did I fall down again?"

"In a way," Aragorn replied.

"Oh. That must be why – " He yawned hugely. "Think I did something to my arm."

"Are you sure it's all right for him to be so – out of it?" Merry asked. "He still thinks you're Faramir."

"It's not unusual." Aragorn sighed. "It should wear off by morning. Almost drowning didn't help. If only I'd held tighter to him –"

"Not your fault, Faramir," Boromir suddenly tried to sit up and grab at Aragorn's arm. He missed and flapped a hand in the general direction, instead. "Listen to me, brother."

There was real urgency in his tone, and an underlying heart-wrenching sympathy. "I know you're upset about the men who drowned, but there was nothing you could do. Nothing I could do. Don't let father make it otherwise. I swear if he says a word, I'll…."

Breathless, dizzy, Boromir fell back against Legolas' chest and was silent.

Aragorn could have wished to hear the end of that sentence. He flicked an intent glance to Legolas and knew they were thinking the same thing – two boys, bereft after their mother's death, constantly struggling to deal with their father's erratic moods. And it seemed Faramir was most often on the end of that injustice. Boromir had sometimes hinted at it, but never more, in all the tales he'd told of his beloved younger brother's adventures.

'_My father is a noble Man, but his rule is failing….'_

Guilt grabbed at Aragorn, making him wonder if indeed Gondor would have been the worse should Thorongil have announced his identity and stayed, rather than leaving Denethor and his infant sons to deal with an increasingly dire front line battle.

'_And the Tower Guard will take up the call, for the Lords of Gondor have returned…._'

Boromir had all but given him a gold-plated invitation to claim the throne. Did he dare accept? Had he already accepted it…? He had summoned Boromir from the realm of death, called him back as his King. Could it have been as much that command as Frodo's threat that had silenced the Ring?

Aragorn shook himself away from such as yet pointless meandering. He leaned close and began examining the arm wound, peering into the shadows cast by Gimli's fire-guard. "I need more light, Gimli. He will have to bear it a moment while I tend this."

Gimli grunted assent and stepped aside. Aragorn dabbed at the deep gouge, and Boromir gasped pain, assaulted on two fronts. He blinked, shook his head a little, immediately regretted it, and looked as direct as he could manage into Aragorn's eyes

"Aragorn?" he recognized with mild surprise. But Aragorn's relief in that apparent improvement was short-lived as Boromir turned sharply, wincing as he called, "Faramir, look who's here."

When there was no response and no other Man anywhere in sight, he said uncertainly, "Faramir?"

Gimli stepped closer and patted Boromir's shoulder. "Call of nature," he said. "Your brother drank at least as much ale as you did."

Boromir's lips curved in that slow, impish smile that so radically altered him, taking the stern soldiering years from his face and revealing his youth.

"Gimli, my friend," he said, daring the light to squint toward the Dwarf, "I tell you, he can never out-drink me!"

"Nor me, I'll wager!" Gimli winked.

Aragorn continued his painful work, probing to clean the wound thoroughly and Boromir bit down, then cursed fluently.

"Arrows! Why is it always fucking arrows?!" he griped, making Aragorn laugh aloud.

"I'm glad you find it funny, my king," Boromir said casually and Aragorn gasped surprise and pleasure. Yes, Boromir was anything other than coherent right now, but still –

"Damnit," Boromir continued, "How long does he need to take a piss?" He sighed impatience, then his green eyes tried unsuccessfully to lock with Aragorn's gaze. He lowered his voice to a confidential whisper, and said, "I wanted to tell him that I found his King for him. I used to promise him I would, when he was a boy, y'know."

"You did?" Aragorn was both touched and a little embarrassed, wondering how much more Boromir might reveal that he would have preferred to keep private had he all his senses about him. Merry and Pippin, he noted, were hanging on every word, intrigued by these freer insights, but also no doubt planning much teasing later.

"All the time. It was the one story he never grew tired of hearing. How I'd ride home with our King at my side." He flashed that groggy, happy drunken smile again, and added, "Never had much use for a King, myself, but Faramir is the dreamer of the family!" He frowned suddenly. "Usually."

"The wound is clean," Aragorn announced, hoping to distract the Man from talking too much on a topic that could later embarrass him – if he remembered, which Aragorn seriously doubted.

"Oh, good. Another wound, another scar, as the saying goes."

"One more for the ladies to count," Legolas put in.

"And kiss." Boromir said with cheerful lechery. He tried to wink, but his bruised eye couldn't quite manage it.

"It wouldn't have scarred so much if you hadn't wrenched it out so roughly," Gimli said unsympathetically. "Which reminds me, why did you do that, Laddie?"

"Do what?" Boromir yawned hugely, watching only partly aware as Aragorn began wrapping a tight bandage about the upper arm.

Gimli sighed. "Pull the arrow out."

"Me?" Boromir blinked, no longer able to follow, weariness finally swamping him completely. His eyes closed and he allowed himself to relax into Legolas' warm and bracing support. "Wouldn't do that…. Stupid thing to do…."

Gimli looked at Aragorn and Legolas. "Do you know?"

Legolas gave the Dwarf a smile. "He used the arrow to hold himself up against the river. Hooked it through his surcoat and into a crevice between log and rock."

Gimli's jaw dropped.

"Most resourceful," Aragorn said dryly into the silence. "I was impressed."

"Well, I'm not!" Gimli declared. "Didn't the idiot know he could have bled to death?"

"Idiot," Boromir murmured happily, half-asleep and sounding oddly reassured.

Aragorn smiled and shook his head, thinking Boromir must hear that often and said with exactly the same affectionate exasperation.

"The idiot had no choice," Legolas said. "Else they would have drowned."

Gimli snorted. "If he needed something sharp, why not use his dagger?"

"Couldn't," Merry said concisely from where he sat on Boromir's left side. Pippin leaned contentedly against his cousin's shoulder and both of them munched apples they could only have found in the same supply barrel from which they'd pulled the alcohol and bandages. The crisp clean aroma made Aragorn's stomach rumble with sudden intense hunger.

"Stuck in a Warg rider," Pippin explained.

"Oh," Gimli said, somewhat disgruntled. After a moment, he continued, "It was very risky, all the same."

"There was more to it than just the river, I'll wager," Aragorn said grimly, and cast a pointed glance at the Ring where it glowed in the firelight, hung from its chain about Frodo's neck. They had all noticed a new ugly red mark staining the Hobbit's pale flesh, circling his neck completely. The deep bruising bore the imprint of the links of the chain.

"The Ring?" Gimli said, appalled.

"You can be sure it would not have lost such an opportunity," Legolas said.

Sam, proving he'd been listening carefully as ever looked up from his position at Frodo's side to offer, "It was strange the way everythin' happened just so during the battle. Us all bein' separated, and all. "

"Indeed." Aragorn tied off the bandage and smiled as he saw that Boromir was now sound asleep, his mouth open a little as he began to snore softly. "That's an encouraging sign, I've never yet known anyone to die while snoring."

Merry and Pippin suddenly stood and came closer to hug Aragorn, then Legolas in turn. "We never thanked you," they said in their odd complete-the- sentence speech pattern. "We can't swim, there was nothing we could do to save them."

"We all played our part. You worked hard to prepare the fire and the other things that were very badly needed," Aragorn said. He smiled. "Now, tell me, are there any more of those apples?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four Onward

Bright early morning sunshine slanted through green leaves overhead and gave glimpses of a crystal clear blue sky. A lovely morning, but too warm so early in the season. There would be rain by afternoon and more enemy would be tracking them. The cavern, secure as it might appear, could nonetheless become a death trap.

"My thanks, Legolas," Aragorn said, and with a muffled groan of relief, he lowered the stern of the boat to rest among the scrubby bushes close by the shelter. At least this, the second boat had not required them carrying it the full distance, having yesterday arrived almost to the half way point before they were attacked. As for the third boat, he and Legolas could not afford the danger of being caught in the open again, nor did they have the time. And, more importantly, there was no longer anyone capable of rowing it. Aragorn had never felt quite so exposed and defenceless, having left Gimli on watch by the ruins and gambled there would be no more enemy on the hunt so soon while they collected the second boat. The Dwarf emerged from cover close by and flashed a smile that immediately said all was well.

"Welcome back!" Gimli greeted.

"That was fast!" Merry added, appearing from the bushes close by, his arms laden with more firewood.

"Any developments?" Aragorn asked and pushed aside the clumped cut branches and small bushes that hid the stone entryway to follow Merry back inside, while Gimli remained on guard, speaking a moment with Legolas.

"Frodo has eaten a better breakfast than in a long while and gone back to sleep," the Hobbit reported. "Sam is very happy."

"Gimli has a theory about that," Legolas told him as he too, entered.

Aragorn huffed a laugh. "Gimli always does!"

"Indeed! He believes Frodo is feeling better because The Ring has been silenced."

Aragorn's brows climbed. "I hadn't thought of that, but it does follow."

"Also, that Frodo enjoyed threatening the thing, and seeing Boromir win against it," Merry put in.

Stepping into the darker interior, Aragorn nodded. "The thought certainly improves my mood. So, how is Boromir?"

"He's awake," Pippin reported from where he sat on guard at the Man's side. "And talking sense at last."

"Talking for himself, at least," Boromir corrected and ruffled the younger Hobbit's curls.

Aragorn saw with relief that Boromir did indeed appear much stronger. He sat with his back propped against a low stone wall that was cushioned by a bed roll. He still looked terribly pale, the vivid bruise a dark blot just above his left eyebrow. The white of the bandage about his upper right arm stood out against the shadows at the back of the old ruin. He walked around the fire-pit to stand smiling down at the wounded Man.

"I am glad to see you recovering, my friend," he said.

Boromir lifted his head to return the smile when a shaft of intense sunlight suddenly streamed through the portal where Legolas was readjusting the foliage screen at the entrance. Boromir flinched and threw his left arm up to cover his face.

"The light still hurts your eyes?"

"It's nothing," Boromir said. "It will pass."

Legolas called an apology and warily, Boromir lowered his arm and squinted up at Aragorn. "How much time have we lost?"

"A day." Forestalling more comment on that subject, Aragorn knelt at the Man's side and, holding up a hand with three fingers splayed asked the standard question. "How many?"

"I can see well enough."

"And?" Aragorn persisted.

Boromir gave an irritated sigh and muttered something under his breath that could have been a curse directed at all healers. He leaned forward a little, trying to get closer to the target, blinking and focusing as best he could. "Two?"

Aragorn said nothing but turned to prepare more athelas tea.

"Well?" Boromir grouched.

"You missed one," Pippin reported cheerfully. Boromir gave another loud sigh. And, seeming to feel some morale boosting was in order, Pippin added, "But you're much better this morning than you were last night, Boromir. I was really worried."

That comment softened Boromir's mood, his lips quirking at the corners. "You were?" Pippin nodded and even Boromir must have been able to see the wide-eyed sorrow of his expression for he reached out and drew the Hobbit into a quick, gruff hug. "You should know by now that I always bounce back."

"That's true," Merry agreed. "You certainly bounced off that wall in Moria. I thought you were a goner then for sure." Boromir snorted dry amusement. "You hit your head hard but you mustn't have been concussed that time because you didn't talk much afterward."

"Talk?" Boromir frowned and thought that over. "I was talking last night?"

"A fair bit." Pippin said. Aragorn threw a warning look at the Hobbits but they only flashed cheeky grins. This was too good an opportunity for teasing.

"I dreamed Faramir and Garad were here," Boromir said slowly. "I thought I'd had too much to drink."

"It would have been funny if we weren't so worried," Merry said.

"I was talking to Faramir as if he were here, wasn't I?"

"You called him a mother hen," Pippin said, Merry finishing, "And some other less complimentary names that would have got your mouth washed out with soap if you were in the Shire."

"They tell me I do that sometimes, when I'm fevered," Boromir said, and lifted a hand to gingerly trace the large bruise on his forehead. "I don't remember hitting my head. How did that happen?"

"Ahh, well." The Hobbits looked direct at Aragorn, immediately implicating him.

"I lost my grip and the current slammed you into the rock," Aragorn said, guiltily glad that Boromir could not focus well enough to look him straight in the eye. "I am sorry."

"Sorry!" Gimli snorted sourly. He clumped inside, lugging Boromir's water-logged shield and propping it close to the fire. "Don't listen to him, Laddie. What he means to say is he somehow managed to get your sorry hide back to shore despite the safety line giving way and your great lump of a foot being trapped and dragging you down."

"Oh…." Boromir said slowly. "Then it is I who must apologize. You did well, Aragorn. My thanks."

"Apologize?" Aragorn squatted down to hand over the mug of steaming tea. Boromir reached, and missed, his eyes still not focusing properly. Aragorn said nothing but took Boromir's left hand and curled it about the cup.

"Yes." Boromir swallowed some tea and grimaced at the taste. "I forgot to tell Frodo to tell you about that before I passed out."

"How could you need to apologise, Boromir?" Pippin asked. "You were unconscious!"

"You did it deliberately?" Aragorn said.

"Did what?" Gimli growled. "Sometimes I swear you two are as bad as Elves. We can't read your minds."

"Just as well, all things considered," Boromir commented dryly. Gimli gave a great grunt of irritation and the Man explained. "I deliberately wedged my foot in the crevice."

Gimli gaped. "What? Near bleeding to death wasn't enough?"

"I didn't near bleed to death. My feet kept slipping, and I knew my full weight could break the arrow shaft. If it gave way, Frodo and I would have been sucked into the whirlpool."

"There was a whirlpool?" Sam squeaked in alarm from the other side of the fire.

"Right behind us." Frodo told him, sitting up to pat Sam's arm and give him a wry smile.

"You knew?" Boromir said, squinting blearily toward Frodo's voice and flinching as the firelight caught his eyes.

"I could see it from atop your shoulders, Boromir."

"Oh." Boromir dropped his eyes, avoiding the light. "I never knew. You gave no sign. I doubt I could have done so well had I been trapped out there, unable to swim."

Frodo huffed a half laugh and climbed to his feet, Sam hovering anxiously. "I don't believe that for a moment. Not a moment." He came round the fire to stand close at Boromir's side. The Man tried valiantly to meet the Hobbit's eyes but it was apparent he could see little more than a blur and was tracking by movement and sound alone. Frodo bent, took Boromir's free hand, and held it close to his heart.

"Thank you, Boromir," he said intently. "Thank you, for everything."

Boromir did not look up, but simply nodded. Then, as Frodo let go, Boromir said, almost in a whisper, "Some of it deserves anything other than thanks."

Before Frodo could respond, he lifted his head and a grin spread like dawn-light over his otherwise shadowed and battered features. "But I am glad, Frodo, most glad of the outcome."

"Now there's an understatement if ever there's been one!" Impulsively, yet shyly, Frodo leaned forward and touched his lips to Boromir's bruised forehead. Aragorn was amused and touched to see a spread of colour wash away the Man's pallor.

"There is only thanks owed," Frodo told him. "And remember this, you won. You showed me it can be done. I will never forget that, Boromir. It will carry me through, it will see me through." Frodo's voice caught and he turned away.

Boromir seemed puzzled yet reassured all at once.

"Look at the two of you," Merry said, trying for a scolding tone and failing. "Pale as mushrooms in the moonlight and rambling on like as if you've eaten the wrong kind!"

Boromir spluttered a laugh, and tension fled the group. "Do you have any of the right kind, Master Meriadoc? I am famished!"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Merry replied smugly.

"Mushrooms?" Gimli all but drooled into his beard. "Now where did you find those? I never let you scamps out of my sight for a moment."

"It's a cave, Gimli," Pippin said with exasperation. "You must know you can always find mushrooms in a cave."

"Only in moldy caves," Gimli huffed. "Our homes are not moldy. And this is, by the way, not a cave."

"Near as," Merry said.

Aragorn shook his head and gripped Boromir's shoulder. "I am glad that you are well enough to be hungry," he said, then with a pointed glance at the two younger Hobbits, added, "But sorry that we will all starve if we must wait for this debate to be decided."

"Give 'em 'ere, and let me cook 'em proper," Sam said, reaching for the bag. "There's still some of that dried venison, too. And some herbs. And for once a real fire pit to cook on. Now, if only we had some 'taters'."

"It seems we are saved," Aragorn smiled.

"What time of day is it?" Boromir asked, abruptly serious.

"Second breakfast time," Pippin informed him cheerily.

"Good. We can be back on the river by midday."

"What?" Pippin exclaimed. 'But Boromir, you are not well enough to be –"

Ignoring the comment, Boromir peered up at Aragorn to ask, "You went for the second boat. Was there any sign of the enemy?"

Aragorn sighed heavily. "No."

"Yesterday I fought a much larger, more cunning enemy. It could only have been one of the Uruk-hai of whom Celeborn warned us. It was marked with the White Hand."

"Painted on the face?" Boromir nodded and Aragorn said, "Yes, I caught a glimpse of such a one myself and Legolas reported putting an arrow into it. He tells me it was intent on attacking you and the Hobbits." Frodo and the Ring was left unsaid.

"Uruk-hai," Gimli said, "Just what we need." His deep voice was an ominous rumble in the sudden quiet, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire.

"It is not far now to the Falls," Aragorn said. "There we must make some decisions. "

***

After a most enjoyable hot meal, relished all the more because it had been eaten inside rather than outside at the mercy of the elements, most were not keen to leave. Only Boromir and Legolas shared Aragorn's growing sense of urgency – the Uruk had survived the battle, and though wounded, would by now have reported to the main band. The creature had come so close to capturing its prize, it would be eager to reclaim the trail. All the more so for believing that one of the warriors that travelled with the Fellowship had been killed. Aragorn cast a swift glance forward along the trail to the riverbank where Merry and Pippin were guiding Boromir to the prepared boats. The Man's eyes were even less use out here in the bright sunshine. His heart contracted at the memory of how very near they had come to losing him.

Aragorn was keenly aware that of them all other than Frodo, he himself had the most vital decision facing him – should he accept Boromir's plea and return to Minas Tirith and at last give Gondor its King? Or at least another defender. Denethor would not be best pleased, but then, by the confessions Boromir had made as to his father's state of mind, there seemed no other choice but to dare his wrath. Yes, he would return to Gondor, but when?

Aragorn turned to look behind where Sam was, as ever, assisting Frodo, carrying his pack as they too made for the boats. Frodo could not be expected to face Mordor alone. Gondor must wait. Boromir and his brother must – somehow – continue to hold the White City as the enemy's forces grew ever stronger.

Reaching the other Man who stood waiting to step last into the boat as Legolas and Merry and Pippin finished packing it, Aragorn clapped him on the shoulder in a gesture of friendship and support.

Boromir turned to him with a smile, and said cheerfully, "So, I am reduced to baggage."

"Not for long. Enjoy the break from rowing while you can."

"I will rest my sword arm. I have a feeling it will soon be needed once more."

Aragorn let out a heavy sigh. "Yes, the enemy cannot be far behind us. We must keep moving, otherwise I would not –"

"Please, don't say it again," Boromir scowled. "I tell you I will not succumb for being exposed to a little bad weather."

Aragorn merely nodded and turned to place his pack in his own boat, not repeating his concern that Boromir had not fully recovered and was still fighting off the remnants of fever.

"We'll be sure to keep him warm, Strider," Pippin announced cheerfully.

"Come on, then," Merry added, reaching for Boromir's arm. "Get in. We've laid blankets over some leather in the bottom so we can wrap them about you."

"Thank you," Boromir said with as much good grace as he could muster. He squinted bleary-eyed at the bank, trying to spot the slippery places where much coming and going had churned up the mud. Legolas took his other arm, ignoring an irritated sigh to assist Boromir safely into the boat.

Aragorn lifted Frodo and Sam in turn into his boat, neither having managed alone in the past without making it lurch alarmingly and scaring themselves before the journey even began. At the moment, Aragorn suspected Frodo was more afraid than ever of returning to the river, and none would blame him for it. Gimli sat ready in the prow, eyeing the water darkly. The Dwarf too could not swim, and would much have preferred to walk for all that travel by river required no exertion.

"All set?" Aragorn called both to his own passengers and those in the other boat. A chorus of varied answers returned.

"Keep the boats as close together as possible," he said again, and could almost see Legolas' exasperation. If he'd said it once he'd said it ten times, Aragorn knew, and no doubt would say another ten times before the day ended.

They had traveled less than an hour when the sun disappeared amid heavy, scudding, metal-grey clouds. Rain soon followed, a steady chill downpour that would soon have drenched them to the skin if not for the wondrous warmth and water-repellent qualities of the hooded Elven cloaks. Those who were not rowing would feel the chill much faster. Aragorn found there were some advantages to Boromir's impaired vision for it meant he could regularly check the Man's condition or at least as best as was possible from some distance. Prior to setting out, he had asked Legolas to signal him if he thought Boromir's fever was worsening to the point that an earlier stop would be needed, and that signal came by mid afternoon. Aragorn could see for himself that Boromir no longer sat tall and straight, but was hunched forward in his cloak, and the Hobbits had somehow managed to tuck themselves more snugly about him.

Aragorn steered his boat closer still, meeting Legolas' worried eyes. He nodded and together they struck out for the dim line of the shore, masked in drifting veils of rain. As soon as the boats touched bottom, Aragorn forestalled Boromir's expected questioning as to why they were stopping so early. "There is a high crest behind the trees. I will climb it and see how far we are from Amon Hen. Also if there is any sign of the enemy."

"They won't be falling any further back for our halting now," Gimli grumbled. Then, as he clambered awkwardly from the boat and looked toward Boromir, he understood and added, "But we can all use some hot tea. And I am glad of the chance to stretch my legs."

Legolas could not let that go. "Says he who has almost the shortest legs of us all."

Gimli glowered at the Elf and said with as much dignity as possible, "A compact form is much the better for endurance. It grieves me to hear you are having difficulties with those ungainly limbs, Legolas."

The two kept up the banter, covering as Merry and Pippin hurried to report to Aragorn in an urgent whisper. "Boromir's much sicker, though he won't let on." Merry's eyes were dark with worry as he looked up at Aragorn.

"He's been shivering so hard it rattled the boat," Pippin added.

"I know," Aragorn said. "Do not fear, some more athelas will see him restored."

"I can hear you whispering over there," Boromir grouched, stumbling a little despite Legolas' steadying hand as he climbed from the boat, "And I know what you're about." He took a few shaky steps up the bank to stand and glare as best he could at Aragorn. "You cannot afford to risk the entire group for my benefit, Aragorn. You know that."

"We do not stop long," Aragorn said stiffly. Boromir was right and that only made Aragorn all the more angry. "Hot food now will make all the difference between a mild fever and survival." Boromir shook his head, set to continue the argument, and Aragorn snapped, "If I am to be Gondor's King, I will not begin by delivering a dead son to the Steward!"

The two men stood like stags with locked horns a long moment, the rest of the Fellowship gaping at them uneasily.

Then, suddenly, a faint smile broke the stern set of Boromir's features. "Father would not be amused," he agreed.

He lifted his gaze and managed to focus enough to look disarmingly direct into Aragorn's eyes, searching, seeking how much truth was carried in his words. Aragorn met that examination unflinching, and Boromir gave a quick sharp nod. He made the effort to lift his wounded right arm and grip Aragorn's forearm. "But the Captain General of Gondor must tell his King when he might need to reconsider his strategy."

The words hit Aragorn with a tidal surge of emotion. He had never dared imagine to be given that title by Denethor's son. He held the other Man's gaze and, as unashamed tears filmed his eyes, returned the forearm grip. He could not trust his voice to accept what was surely a vow of allegiance.

"As well as concede when his judgment is correct," Boromir added, suddenly swaying on his feet.

"Sit, my General, before you fall!" Aragorn steadied him and helped him sit down.

Boromir added wryly, "Though it will be more the trial for me, obeying a King who is also a healer!"

Aragorn snorted, and suddenly he was laughing, and the Fellowship relaxed. "The sooner we get water boiled, the sooner we set out again. I would like to reach Amon Hen by nightfall."

"I will go to the top of the crest," Legolas offered. "And see what may be spied through all this rain."

"My thanks," Aragorn said. "Come Merry, Pippin, help me unload the dry firewood from the boat. Sam –"

But the most pragmatic of the Hobbits was already unpacking the utensils needed to make a hasty meal.

"Thank you," Aragorn said, wondering if he had said it enough to Sam in their long journey.

A short time later, they sat huddled under their cloaks, as close as possible to the small fire that spat and spluttered in the rain. The flames were shielded as best they could manage with the green boughs Gimli had chopped from the surrounding trees. Aragorn hoped that those branches, combined with the now heavier rain, would also protect the fire from spying eyes. Legolas had returned to report a long sweeping curve of the river lay ahead of them, and beyond, just visible to Elven eyes, stood the Argonath.

"The statues are really big enough to be seen from so far?" Pippin asked.

"Indeed."

"And they were Kings of Gondor?" Merry continued.

"The High King, Elendil, and his younger son, Anárion who was the first King of Gondor".

"Wasn't there another son?" Pippin said, taking his turn.

"Yes, Isildur," Aragorn put in, as Legolas looked expectantly to him. "He was King of Arnor." Aragorn was not concentrating on the conversation, as pertinent as it was to him. Despite the hot athelas tea, Boromir's condition seemed to be deteriorating rather than improving. And if it could worsen even with athelas to aid him, Aragorn feared for his friend's survival. Yet they could not stop, for though Legolas could not see them, he had quietly reported to Aragorn that he was certain the Uruks were but a half day behind.

"Try to drink another cup," Aragorn urged, placing the refilled tin mug in Boromir's hands, and noting they trembled with an inner chill.

Boromir nodded, his silence further adding to Aragorn's concern. He took one small mouthful, then paled, overcome by a wave of nausea. Aragorn had never known anyone to be other than eased by the herb. Boromir put down the mug to lift his unwounded arm and rub at his eyes.

"The headache is worse?" Aragorn guessed.

"A little. It is nothing," Boromir said, but the hoarse whisper of his voice belied the reassurance. He squinted painfully toward Aragorn and added more firmly, "We have wasted enough time. We must move or –"

Aragorn knew he cut himself short for the sake of the Hobbits. But it was clear enough – remain here another hour and risk dying at the hands of the Uruks.

"We will go now," Aragorn said, standing.

"But –" Merry and Pippin looked from him to Boromir in confusion.

"We leave now," Aragorn repeated, kicking damp soil over the fire. "Help Boromir into the boat and see he is covered against the rain."

"I can manage for myself," Boromir grumbled, but accepted the helping hands as he staggered to his feet.

"Aragorn," Frodo asked. "A moment to speak with you?"

"Of course."

They took a few paces away from the group, and Frodo whispered, "The Ring is active again. Worse than ever. It drains Boromir's strength, I can feel it. It desires his death. Does that mean it knows help may be close at hand?"

Aragorn avoided answering. "Is there anything that might counter its will?"

"It seeks your mind now, Aragorn. It will kill Boromir, then try to take you."

Aragorn stood silent a moment, feeling a chill deeper than any winter. He had known Boromir stood between he and the Ring all the way from Rivendell. And now that formerly unbreakable bulwark was gone, not in Boromir's failure, but rather because of his victory. The Ring would expend no more of its strength, waste no more time, trying to erode that fortress wall. Rather it would kill the proud heart that held it at bay and may have kept Aragorn from falling. How had the Man endured and resisted that insidious voice so long, all the while dreading what he might find when he returned to a beloved home so precariously besieged?

Frodo stood watching Aragorn, pity and understanding full in his eyes.

"I know," Aragorn admitted. "I have felt it, today, in the boat. It desires my doubt. It offers an easier way."

"It lies." Frodo's youthful face twisted into a sneer of hatred. "Ever it lies, ever it seeks to destroy all that we love, all that brings joy and beauty. I will not allow it, Aragorn, I will not!"

Frodo's raised voice drew Sam's attention and Frodo waved him brusquely away. "Not now, Sam."

Both Frodo and Aragorn could see the hurt in the loyal Hobbit's brown eyes as he turned back to his work.

"You see?" Frodo said. "That is how it would have things. There is only one answer. I must leave the Fellowship. Soon. And alone…."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five Amon Hen**

Frodo watched, standing back anxiously, as Aragorn knelt at Boromir's side. The Ranger lay a hand to the unconscious Man's pale brow. Then he pulled aside the swaddled blankets and lay his head to Boromir's chest, listening carefully. They had carried the Man from the boat, then placed him here atop leathers and bed rolls in the most sheltered position they could find at the lake shore near Amon Hen. The Fellowship gathered about the Man, tense and deeply worried as they awaited Aragorn's verdict. Merry and Pippin looked close to tears, Pippin sitting at Boromir's side and holding his hand, Merry standing with one hand on his young cousin's shoulder. Sam cast Frodo a worried glance and worked to settle a full tea kettle over the flames of a beginning camp fire. Sam knew full well what Frodo would do now Boromir's condition had so rapidly deteriorated during the day's travel down river.

Frodo stepped back further still, and willed himself not to finger the Ring on the chain about his neck. How he hated – and loved – the thing! But, seeing what it was doing to Boromir, hate won out. Frodo wanted desperately to stand with the others, to help care for Boromir, but mostly he just wanted to be with them, to truly be one of them. The Ring made him an outcast. Never had he felt so alone, so afraid.

Aragorn finished his examination and sat back on his heels.

"Well?" Gimli demanded, breaking the long silence.

Aragorn sighed heavily and did not look away from Boromir's still face. "Not good."

"We can see that for ourselves," Gimli snapped. "Could you be more precise?"

Aragorn closed his eyes in a grimace of helpless pain. "Pneumonia. It will soon spread into the other lung."

Frodo gasped a sobbing breath and looked sharply away, his gaze resting on a broken statue amid the shadows of the pine forest. This place reminded him bleakly of a grave yard. When he looked back all but Merry and Pippin were watching him with varying degrees of expectancy. Aragorn's piercing blue eyes were full of sympathy and underlying indecision.

"I should not have waited," Frodo told him. "I should have left yesterday."

Aragorn got to his feet and came to stand at Frodo's side. He placed a large, gentle hand over Frodo's thin shoulder. "You had no choice."

"None of us did," Legolas put in, moving to join them.

"There is always a choice!" Frodo snapped, pulling away from Aragorn's grip, angry and crying all at once. "Gandalf taught me that. I intended to leave after Lothlorien. If I had, Boromir might have had a chance."

"He still has a chance," Aragorn said quietly.

"I hope so." Frodo stood a moment, staring at the two elven boats pulled onto the sandy bank a few yards below the forest. Could he manage one alone? He thought he might, the lake was calm, the day cool and clear, and the distance short.

Aragorn took a step closer. "Not yet. We must prepare."

"Boromir doesn't have the time." Frodo felt suddenly calm, at peace, his decision made.

"If you cross the lake now the enemy will see you," Aragorn bent to whisper harshly, not wanting Merry and Pippin to hear. "They are but a day or so behind and will have their scouts ahead of the main party."

Frodo smiled a little, amused at Aragorn's attempt at secretiveness. Frodo's two cousins had long since figured what he was about and were watching him like hawks. And Sam knew him better than he knew himself. There lay the true problem, how to get away alone? He would not take them with him to what must surely be death.

"You are the heart of this quest, Frodo," Aragorn continued, guiding him further from the camp, "You must be safe. Boromir would not want –"

"I will leave under cover of dark, then, " Frodo agreed. "But for now, I cannot stay so close."

Aragorn nodded. "I will lead you away from Boromir. The Seat of Seeing may yet provide us with some aid, some vision of what lies ahead."

"No," Frodo said, adamant. He turned to the Man, his jaw set as he met and held the experienced Ranger's eyes. "You stay here, Aragorn. Boromir needs you."

Aragorn glanced back to the unconscious Man, torn.

"I will go with you," Legolas said, stepping out from beneath one of the trees and proving he had, as usual, overheard even from a distance.

"Wherever you go, Elf, a Dwarf must follow," Gimli said, stepping round his taller friend. He looked at Frodo and winked, " Elves, so busy communing with the trees they see nothing else."

Legolas only smiled. "Then there will be four of us go to the Seat."

"Four?" Gimli frowned, but Frodo had seen the other in hiding.

"Dwarves," Legolas said with great satisfaction, "are so busy worrying about Elves, they do not see much else. Come, Sam, " he said, turning to the red-faced hobbit. "Frodo will want you at his side, as always."

Frodo sighed at that, but smiled for Sam. "I do need you and will be glad of your company for the climb, Sam," he said.

"And what about Merry and me?" Pippin said, stepping clear of the lower shrubbery that had hidden him far more successfully than Sam had managed. Pippin had thought to draw his cloak hood up. It seemed Boromir's lessons in survival were indeed taking hold. Frodo noted the younger of the cousins had been delegated as spy, while the other remained to watch over Boromir.

"I am ever glad of your company, too," Frodo said sincerely. "But for now you must stay and help Aragorn. He'll need someone to help with Boromir. I'll be back soon, I do not go far, Sam is with me, and Legolas and Gimli will watch after us." He turned back to the campfire, to wait as his companions gathered their weapons and some food and water.

"Since when did you start giving the orders?" Merry demanded as soon as Pippin told him what was going on.

Frodo met his gaze solemnly and lifted the Ring on his palm, holding it out before him. "Since this started trying to kill you all." Merry flinched and looked down at his feet. "You know what Galadriel said."

"It will take us one by one," Merry mumbled, repeating what Frodo had told him and making Aragorn look sharply to him from where he had gone to crouch at Boromir's side.

"Yes," Frodo said. Putting away the Ring, he stepped closer to lay a hand to Merry's shoulder, and the other he held out to Pippin, the three of them connected by the touch. "Well, I won't let it, Merry , Pip, " Frodo said fiercely. "I will not let it!" He hugged each of them quickly. "Stay. Take care of Boromir for me – he wouldn't be so sick if he hadn't helped me. I must go."

"I've left the kettle boiling for Aragorn's medicines," Sam said, coming to join them. "Now don't' you go lettin' it boil away. Keep an eye on it."

"As if we'd forget!" Merry and Pippin gave him an exasperated look, though Sam was right. The familiar by-play made Frodo want to smile and cry at the same time. He did not want to leave them, not ever. They had been fast friends before they had left the Shire, and their long journey since had forged them into something even greater.

"We will see you again later today," Legolas promised, eyeing them with understanding.

"Be careful," Aragorn called, and bent to listen again to Boromir's harsh, uneven breathing. It sounded like a man drowning. And it was. Frodo bit down hard, refusing more tears. He hurried away uphill. The faster he got the Ring away from the Man, the better.

Merry and Pippin stood a long moment, watching their friends disappear uphill, weaving their way beyond rocks, statues and forest.

"I will need more wood for this fire," Aragorn said, returning their attention. "But don't go out of my line of sight. There's a dead fall over there under that gnarled tree by the water's edge."

Obediently, the hobbits set to work, going to and fro until they had the fire built to roaring blaze that would help keep back the deadly chill that settled about the ground on which Boromir lay protected only by several leather bed rolls and blankets.

Aragorn placed dried athelas in a tin cup and poured boiling water over it. He held the steaming tea under the Man's chin. Nothing, no response.

"Will he die?" Pippin asked tearfully.

"Not if I can help it," Aragorn said. " His breathing is stronger now."

"Because the Ring is further from him?"

"Yes."

"Curse Sauron!" Merry snapped. "Why did he have to, why would he want to – to destroy all that's good in this world?"

"A wise question, Merry. Many have sought an answer. Here, help me prop him up a little. I think he's waking. If we can get him to drink some of this it will help."

Between them they succeeded in sitting the Man up, bolstering his back with their packs. Aragorn managed to get Boromir to swallow some of the hot athelas, pleased to see some colour return to his face.

Boromir groaned and coughed then squinted up at them. "What – I passed out?"

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Perhaps two hours."

"Hours!" he spluttered then coughed harder.

"Careful!" Aragorn warned. "You must not overtax yourself."

That comment earned a filthy glare. "Where's Frodo and --?"

"Not far. Legolas and Gimli are with them."

"Dammit," Boromir swore hoarsely. "We can't allow -- the group to – split.."

"Oh, hush!" Merry interrupted sharply. "We had to get the Ring away from you. None of us are going to sit by and let you die so we can –"

"Merry," Boromir said soft yet clear and stern. "It's what soldiers do. It's the way of war."

"Uruks!" Aragorn stood abruptly, spilling the tea. His frowning gaze went to the top of the hill. "Legolas needs my aid."

Cursing, Boromir pushed himself to his knees, the hobbits bracing him.

"Hide!" Aragorn demanded. "Keep down, use the cloaks!"

Boromir tried to stand but his legs would not hold him. Merry and Pippin took a few paces, set to disobey and follow, but realising Boromir would be killed trying to do the same, they hesitated.

"Get that fire out!" Boromir snarled, and Aragorn, charging uphill, smiled grimly – Gondor's Captain General was back, unable to walk, but well able to command. The Hobbits would be safe with him.

"_We have not yet engaged them in battle Sixty or more." _Legolas spoke in Aragorn's mind as he sprinted, leaping over logs and ducking under low branches. _"There is a rock fall to take some as they come uphill."_

Aragorn did not have the ability to Send but knew Legolas would catch his urgent thought, "Frodo? Sam?"

"_On their way to you. More enemy! Left flank!"_

Aragorn strained to run faster, hearing the first outcry of battle. Dust rose from the far side of the brow of the hill and there was a thunderous roar as the rockslide was let loose. That would stall the frontal attack, which was as well, Gimli's axe clanging as he fought on the flank. It seemed Saruman's Uruk-hai were indeed better trained than mere orcs.

"Frodo! Sam!" Aragorn called breathlessly as he spotted the small figures running downslope. "Here!" Wild-eyed, they drew level with him. "Are you all right? The enemy didn't see you?"

Frodo shook his head, bent double, hands on his knees, gasping raggedly. He should not be so fatigued so soon. The Ring, combined with weakness caused by his battle with the river only yesterday, was draining him badly. Sam, his eyes dark with worry, rubbed his friend's back. "We got clear in time," the little gardener answered, "Legolas saw them coming a ways off."

"Good. Get to the boats, cross the lake, wait for me on the other side."

"No." Frodo straightened and his blue eyes burned deep into Aragorn's heart. He had dreaded this moment, known it must come. "Sam and I go to Mordor alone. You cannot help us, not this time."

"But –" Unbidden tears filmed Aragorn's sight. He was both horrified and glad, relieved that Sam was going and moved by so great a depth of courage. _I will take it, _Frodo had said all those long weeks ago in Rivendell, and Aragorn had seen the flinch, the agony the words brought to Gandalf's face. He had known, too. It did not make the parting any easier. '_A cruel folly.' _Boromir was surely correct.

"Frodo –" Aragorn said, "I swore to protect you."

Frodo said nothing but held out the Ring, uncurling his fist to reveal it shining bright in the afternoon light, so beautiful flat on his palm, so inviting –

"Can you protect me from yourself?"

_Elessar. Elessar._

Aragorn shivered, it was calling to him, so intent, so pleading, so desperate for his aid. Against his will, Aragorn was drawn closer. So mighty a weapon, in the right hands, The Ring could secure victory. Why rush to destroy it?

Aragorn's right arm twitched, he forced himself to close his fist about his sword hilt, denying the urge to reach out, to take –

_Elessar!_

All the Ring's mighty power was focused solely on him now. Boromir no longer stood as a bulwark between them. Aragorn closed his eyes. Drawing on all his strength he concentrated on Boromir's victories. The Man had had the thing in his grasp amid the snows of Caradhras, and it had contrived to get he and Frodo alone in the river. Alone in the river, and somehow Boromir had brought Frodo safely back to them when it would have been oh so easy to let him drown, take the Ring for himself. Pride and affection for the Man, his good friend, surged through Aragorn along with Boromir's recent words –

_The Captain General of Gondor must tell his King when he might need to reconsider his strategy._

That such a Man had named him King, had offered his service! Gondor's call sang in Aragorn's heart now too, blocking out the cloying lies, concealing the bright shining deceit that was the Ring of Power. Sauron's power, Sauron's evil.

Aragorn looked up, met Frodo's patiently waiting eyes. So blue, so much wiser, older, sadder an expression than that of the hobbit Aragorn had first seen entering an inn in Bree. Bare months yet it seemed as lifetime ago now.

"I would have gone with you to the very fires of Mordor."

"I know," Frodo said, proud and sorrowful all at once. "Follow your heart, Aragorn. Return to Gondor, your people need you. Your blood lies there, your family waits there."

Choked by emotion, Aragorn simply nodded. He lay one hand to Frodo's shoulder and one to Sam's and squeezed gently.

"Look after Boromir, and Merry, and Pippin," Frodo said. "They will not understand. They are hiding back there, protecting him?"

"So I hope, such was my order. Boromir cannot walk, they will not leave him."

"Good, we should be able to avoid them."

_Aragorn!_ Legolas cried urgently.

"The Valar protect you that we meet again in victory," Aragorn said, even as he was moving, sword in hand, charging back into battle. He allowed fury to flood him, savage anger that the cruel foe should bring him to this, sending two innocents alone to face Mordor. He would see the enemy pay dearly this day!


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six The Breaking

Seated on a damp carpet of leaf mulch, pine needles and moss, Boromir pulled his elven cloak hood up over his head and concentrated on steadying his breathing. His vision still was not good, swimming in and out of focus as he tried to watch Merry and Pippin thoroughly douse the camp-fire. For the moment at least, he was afraid to try standing again knowing the last attempt had brought him dangerously close to blacking out completely. He had hidden the horn under a nearby log, knowing he did not have the breath to use it. Frankly, he was glad to have somewhere to stow it, if he had to fight it was one less thing to hinder his sword arm. He examined the blade ready at his side, and prayed it would not be needed, for, though it galled him to admit it, he was in no condition for fighting.

He hoped Aragorn and the others had encountered only a small group of Uruks, but somehow he doubted it. Aragorn's reaction had been of a man summoned by an urgent call. Boromir swore helplessly and lifted his bleary gaze to sweep the slope of the hill visible amid the trees. Surely Legolas and Gimli would have sent Frodo and Sam back toward Aragorn, getting them away before the enemy saw them? There was no movement from the forest, though Boromir could not rely on his eyesight and did not have a good vantage point to see it all even if he could.

"Good," he told Merry and Pippin who, finished with the fire, quickly gathered tea kettle, cups, bed rolls and other gear, stuffing them into the hollow beneath the rock wall behind him. It was an old animal burrow, big enough to successfully hide all four hobbits, Boromir hoped. He might need to rely solely on the much-vaunted ability of the cloaks to act as camouflage. "Bring my shield, then get into hiding."

Pippin obeyed, heading toward the water where the shield was propped against a boulder. Merry hesitated to ask, "What about you? You can't stay out here."

"I watch for Frodo and Sam," Boromir gulped another unsteady, burning breath, "Show them where –"

Turning toward them, his small hands struggling for a better grip on the shield, Pippin's irritation at the lack of help from Merry altered to wide-eyed alarm. "Back there! Along the water's edge, something big coming this way!"

Grateful for Merry's using himself as a prop, Boromir stood, almost losing balance as he turned sharply to look beyond the piled boulders and rocks that made a partial wall at his back.

"It is! Enemy!" Pippin exclaimed, at the same moment Boromir saw the creature. The white paint on its face stood out clearly in the gloomy shadows, a scout, a forerunner of the main group.

"Get down," Boromir rasped, ducking lower himself, then grabbing at a rock ledge to stop from falling completely. He turned unsteadily, not surprised to find Pippin already had the good sense to get out of the thing's line of sight.

Merry helped him lug Boromir's shield closer.

"I'll hide it," Boromir said. "If there's just the one scout –"

He struggled, managed to stop himself breaking into a coughing fit – all they needed right now. Boromir kept hold of the shield, intending to hide it last, covering the hobbits with it, then himself. Peering over the rock wall, he watched the scout, cursed as he saw another, then another. It was no scouting party but rather a group who would destroy the boats and cut off another retreat by their prey. He counted ten, certain more were coming. Annoyed at the delay in going to ground, he looked back to see what was delaying Merry and Pippin. The hobbits had rapidly checked the boats were well covered and were dragging pine branches to conceal the tell-tale tracks that would otherwise have led to their hideout. They had left nothing about the camp that would give them away.

Pleased, Boromir gave them a nod that said well done, but hurry up! They too, had seen the greater enemy numbers. Both had drawn their elven blades.

Pippin swiveled to look uphill, the way Aragorn had gone. "Frodo! Sam!" he whispered urgently.

"Oh, no!" Merry turned to look. "They'll run right into them!"

"Come on!" Pippin said, running toward the enemy. "We'll lead them away!"

"Wait!" Boromir called.

Struggling to his feet, he hefted the weight of the shield against his left shoulder. He had trained them too well, taught them that he, and they, were the expendables in this quest. The enemy wanted Halflings, Merry and Pippin were as they put it, 'the spares'.

"Over here!" Merry yelled.

"Oy! Here!" Pippin waved his arms, and, seeing him, the enemy broke into a ponderous run.

Lurching after his Little Ones, Boromir spared a moment to cast a glance toward the other hobbits, saw with relief that Sam already had Frodo safely to the boats, was pulling the concealing branches aside. Boromir and his small soldiers must buy them time to get away. Feeling battle rage flood his veins and lend him strength, Boromir broke into a stumbling run, his longer legs closing the gap despite his weakness.

"It's working!" Pippin cried as the entire Uruk group veered toward them.

"I know it's working! Run!" Merry urged.

_Not that way!_ Boromir wanted to shout at them, but barely had breath to keep himself moving. There was an outcropping of boulders and trees to their left, the perfect place to make a stand with their backs defended, but the hobbits had not noticed, were instead running into a sunlit open glade. Then he realised they were right. They could not afford to make a stand here, it was too close to the lake, might yet enable the enemy to discover Frodo and Sam's escape. His Little Ones had learned well, were drawing the Uruks further away, luring them after easy bait. Pride stung Boromir's eyes with tears. Merry and Pippin were soldiers now, had learned how best to sell their lives to save others.

Too slow, too slow! He would not reach the leading Uruk in time to stop its blade killing his friends. Merry pushed his young cousin aside, threw his elven blade, wounded the first Uruk, but did not stop it. Boromir slipped his sword to his left hand, drew and threw his dagger. It was a move he had practiced a thousand times. It took the attacking Uruk in the back of the head, dropping him dead and saving Merry's life. But already another enemy was taking its place, and others were turning toward Boromir. But at last, he was with his friends, his blade singing, chopping through enemy limbs and slicing throats. Dimly, Boromir was aware of pain flooding every muscle, screaming protest at his efforts. The wound in his right had torn open, but was a minor inconvenience, nothing to compare with the struggle to breathe.

Desperately, he fought on, working by instinct, his sight faltering, every breath a victory over the fire raging in his lungs. Sweat poured from his flesh, blinding him further, and threatening the grip on his sword hilt. Pippin had lost his blade now too, driven into an enemy belly. He and Merry were finding and throwing rocks. If Boromir had had the breath he would have had them run, get into hiding, while he held here. But they would never have abandoned him even had he been able to shout at them.

"Get behind me!"

He thought his words were just audible over his straining breathing. If he could just get them between himself and that big tree up the slope, make a stand there, he had taken down almost half the group. Just a few more, he silently begged, a few more. His vision was more darkness than light now, but he saw it even as Merry and Pippin shouted warning – a bigger blot of blackness, painted with white, vivid yellow eyes flaring above a snarling mouth. Something in its hands… a bow?

An arrow thudded into his shield. Its terrible weight was already more than he could bear. The impact shuddered through his left arm, slammed into his shoulder, rippled on through ever straining muscle. Then another arrow, a third. His body shook from head to toe, and every inhalation was agony, raw flame adding to the fire burning in his lungs. Still he hacked and thrust, taking down another enemy, another. He could spare no time to watch the archer and no strength to reach him. The creature stood off, beyond range of his sword. Merry and Pippin threw stones at the thing, and it laughed, a horrible ugly tearing sound of pleasure.

He grunted shocked pain and his right leg collapsed beneath him. He looked down, saw it, an arrow shaft buried in his thigh. There was no use for it, he must fight on one leg. Another Uruk, bellowing rage, thrusting forward. Boromir lunged, met its strike, powered through, the point of his blade embedding in its guts and the effort at hauling it clear sent a great wave of darkness washing over him. Desperate, he shook his head, his blade at the ready, striking, even though he could not see, could not hear over the roaring and thudding of blood in his ears. On his knees, shield defending both his own body and those of the small friends who fought from behind him, he drove his sword forward again and again. He had gained the protection of the giant conifer, its trunk defending their backs.

But he could not last, could not hold, not this time. There were too many, still coming for all his slaughter. An ugly blade evaded his blocking strike, skidded along the mail armour of his left shoulder and arm. The shield strap slipped onto his wrist, his hand gone numb. A kick wrenched him to one side, and he knew he was open, vulnerable, had no strength to bring his sword up again.

"Alive! Take them alive!" An animal snarl of a voice. But the attackers held off.

Another kick and his right hand released its flimsy hold, the sword fell from his grasp. Merry and Pippin charged forward, ready to defend him, but were immediately swept up into powerful enemy arms. Cursing and screaming, their small arms and legs thrashing and kicking, they were nonetheless helpless, captive . He had failed.

Blindly, he groped for the sword hilt, found it, lifted it a little. A huge heavy booted foot slammed down, pinning his gloved fingers. He looked up, blinking sweat from his eyes, saw the Uruk's leer as it took the weapon. It presented it to its master, who knocked it to the ground, intent on a greater prize – the Hobbits.

Boromir heard the metallic grate of a dagger drawn and sharpened on a sword edge. It did not need sharpening, the creature wanted only to draw Boromir's attention to his death, to his butchering.

"No," the towering archer snapped. "This one is mine! I have the pleasure!"

The butcher stepped aside and the leader moved a pace closer. Calm, weary beyond measure, Boromir looked up, saw the ugly face with its pointed teeth, framed by a beautiful blue sky fringed with green branches. Everything doubled and spun in slow circles blotched with black. If the thing wanted him aware as it killed him, it should hurry. He smiled a little at the thought, the yellow eyes flared rage and insult. It grabbed at Boromir's hair, wrenching his head up and back, baring his throat for the knife.

Boromir heard Merry and Pippin's heartbroken desperate cries, "No!" and a great sadness swamped him knowing that would be the last time he ever heard their voices.

"Too easy," the archer spat. "There is no fear in your eyes, soldier boy. There _will _be fear before you die! I'll spill your guts and force them down your throat!"

The blade lowered and Boromir felt its cruel point press against the leather that covered his belly. Another enemy roughly pulled his arms to his back and tied his hands cruelly tight.

"No, please! Boromir!" the Hobbits cried, and he flinched for their sake, did not want them to see him die so ugly a death. He tried to turn, to meet their eyes, to smile, to say 'Well done.'

The blade did not move. The painful grip on his hair tightened, pulling his head back forward. Boromir wavered, struggled mightily for breath.

"Look at me!" The thing demanded. "Look at me, or I cut your friends instead."

Boromir obeyed as best he could, his vision fading in and out so much that it took a moment to locate the target. The creature eased its grip, lowered his head a little, making sure he saw the boot that kicked his shield down hill. It rolled a long way, Boromir watching vaguely, barely conscious and somehow fascinated by its progress. He thought it would go all the way into the water. There was something about the water he should remember, something about not attracting attention to it. But he was too weary, could not grasp it.

Cold liquid doused his face, one of his captors emptying a water skin over his head.

"Stay awake, now soldier boy!" the archer snarled. "If you don't give us some fun, your little friends will."

Boromir nodded as much as the grip on his hair would allow and the archer leered an ugly parody of a smile.

"Good," it said. "Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. My master knows of you."

_Fuck your master_, Boromir tried to say, but there was no power to his voice, no breath for speech. The creature could well see the intent. It snarled and spat, then shook his head hard.

"Denethor, servant of Sauron, my master says."

"You lie!" Boromir sneered hoarsely.

The archer laughed. "I will take you there. Show you. Long has Denethor served the Eye through its seeing stone! My master speaks to such a stone, speaks and listens. Only Denethor's sons deny us victory, the Eye says. Kill them! The Eye has your father, told him to send you from your city."

The acid taste of bile filled Boromir's mouth. His father had spoken of the Seeing Stones, and Boromir suspected, Faramir insisted…

"I see you know it is true! Now Saruman will have the son as Sauron has Denethor!" The fist shook Boromir's head once more and the creature bent low, its eyes level with Boromir's and its foul breath full in his straining lungs. "My master will break you! You will serve the White Hand!"

"Never," Boromir said, knowing it for fact.

Lurtz spat, its warm, thick saliva coating Boromir's clammy cheek. "You _will_ serve!" The thing's left hand closed about the arrow shaft protruding from Boromir's thigh. Its lips pulled back with cruel pleasure, it twisted, turning the barb. Boromir gasped, choked, and felt his head fall forward as the archer let go of his hair.

"Leave him be! Stop it!" he heard the hobbits' cries. Then, a sharp bellow of rage, and an Uruk shouting, "The little rat bit me!" A slap, a grunt, Pippin screaming, "Merry! No!"

Merry's small form thumped heavily down in Boromir's line of sight, blood smeared at his mouth, splashed on his brow.

The pain in his leg was nothing. Boromir bellowed sheer rage, and rammed his head into the archer's groin. He had the pleasure of hearing its shocked grunt of pain and seeing it double over, before the others' boots thudded into his ribs and he knew no more.

***

"Not far now," Aragorn urged softly. He settled Legolas' arm more securely about his shoulders to better take the weight from the Elf's wounded leg.

"Put your other hand on my helm," Gimli offered. "Might as well make use of my being exactly the right height and strength to make a good prop."

Legolas, terribly grey, managed a smile at that and obeyed. "My thanks. But you should go on …"

"We will not leave you," Aragorn snapped to the repeated suggestion. "There will be no more of that. The Fellowship will stand together from this day on. Boromir is right."

"Indeed," Gimli muttered, squinting into the low shaft of golden sunset light that broke through the trees. "We are fortunate to have survived."

"I fear for the others," Legolas panted.

Aragorn frowned, looking away from the treacherous footing of the rocky, moss and leaf slick slope to meet his friend's pain-bleary gaze. "Frodo and Sam are safely away. We saw them reach the other side of the lake."

Legolas shook his head, frustrated at the exhaustion making it difficult for him to better explain. "The _others."_

An ice chill of dread rippled through Aragorn's guts and he fought the urge to run ahead to the hidden camp. "There were no enemy down here, but even had there been, they would not have seen them beneath those cloaks, hidden in the burrow we found."

"I do not Sense their presence," Legolas said. "I am weak, yes, but still –"

Aragorn and Gimli exchanged alarmed glances that became shock as Legolas drew breath to add grimly, " I can smell the enemy. They were here. Please, leave me. Go ahead and come back to tell me our friends our yet safe."

"You cannot stand unaided," Aragorn refused. He concentrated on the immediate need, quelling the fearful images that rose to mind. "We care for you first."

Legolas' right thigh had been slashed so deeply that Aragorn had at first had a battle to staunch the bleeding. Unable to tend the wound immediately, too busy with the fighting, Legolas had lost much blood. Aragorn and Gimli had stood over him, back to back, holding off the enemy for what seemed a long time. But Legolas' wounding had in fact been toward the end of the fighting and luckily so. Legolas had fought on, firing his bow from the ground, his back braced against some of the rock walls of the Seat.

It was, as Gimli said, fortunate they had survived, so heavily had the Uruks outnumbered them. Aragorn himself was terribly weary, his muscles trembling and aching with fatigue. He and his friends had fought desperately all afternoon. They badly needed food and rest and the warmth of a camp fire, especially Legolas. Aragorn was very worried too, for Boromir's condition, though also hopeful for improvement now that the Ring was gone. He flinched at the reminder of Frodo and Sam out there alone –

"No! Oh, no!" Legolas groaned and stiffened in such pain that Aragorn thought his wound must have reopened. He glanced down, saw that the ragged bandage was still holding, then, looking up, caught the grief in his friend's blue eyes.

Aragorn looked sharply forward, where Legolas' keener gaze was fixed. They had climbed clear of a line of trees and boulders that had blocked their vision of the slope between them and camp. Squinting down into the formerly hidden hollow, he saw a faint sheen of light, a reflection of a sunset beam hitting something metallic on the moss-green forest floor. More clearly visible, he realised with chill shock, were the sprawled and broken bodies of Uruks.

"What?" Gimli asked, not having the height to see.

"It is Boromir's sword," Legolas said in a terrible pained whisper. "He fought many."

Gimli gasped in horror and leaving off being a prop, charged downslope. Aragorn bent, intending to carefully lower Legolas to sit on a nearby rock outcropping, but the Elf shook his head and gripped his arm, limping quickly forward.

The glade was a bowl, surrounded by a rim of lichen-splotched boulders and moss covered buttress roots of tall conifers and beech trees. Its shape had hidden the evidence of battle until they were almost on top of it. There were enemy dead everywhere, too many for one Man, surely. A quick check showed Boromir and the Hobbits were not among the dead. Aragorn's attention returned to the sword, lying alone, tossed aside, brilliant silver against emerald green. Yet if Boromir no longer held the blade, he was dead or captive. Tears filmed Aragorn's eyes and he blinked them angrily away, needing to be steady and clear-headed to search for the details of what had taken place.

"No," Legolas assured Gimli, reading his mood and expression. "They do not lie here. There are only Uruk dead."

"Captured?" Gimli said hoarsely. He had come to a standstill close by the sword, but seemed unable to bring himself to touch it. To be captured, they knew, could well be a fate worse than death. "Merry and Pippin, too?"

Aragorn lowered Legolas carefully until he sat on an ancient log overgrown with moss and fern. Then, walking as if in a dream, he crossed the few paces to the sword, disbelieving it could ever have been taken from the living Man. It was like looking upon a severed limb, so much had it been a part of Boromir. Slowly, Aragorn went to his knees and Gimli's hand gripped his shoulder in shared grief. Aragorn reached out with trembling, bloodied, scraped and bruised fingers and closed his fist reverently about the sword hilt. He drew it hard to his chest and folded his arms across it, hugging it as it to protect the spirit of the Man who had so valiantly wielded its blade.

"He could nae walk, could barely breathe," Gimli said, slipping into heavier accent in his shock. "Yet all these brutes can only be his kills. How is it possible?"

"He fought to protect his Little Ones," Legolas said simply.

"And they are taken from him," Gimli concluded, his voice rough and breaking.

"He made them pay dearly," Legolas said. "I could almost wish I had witnessed so valiant a battle. Aragorn," he added firmly, "my heart tells me they yet live. We must find and free them!"

"We will, for so I vow," Aragorn answered, fierce determination and anger flooding his veins. "The enemy has out-thought me this day. Those we battled were but a feint, a cover for those who were sent along the lake shore to destroy the boats, block escape. Thanks to Boromir, Merry and Pippin, they do not have victory."

"Aye," Gimli nodded. "It is all the more a miracle that somehow they missed Frodo and Sam."

"It was no accident," Legolas said.

"No?"

"Merry and Pippin led them away from the lake, and Boromir went to their defence".

Aragorn handed the sword to Gimli and went quickly about the glade, examining the battleground, the way the bodies had fallen, the imprint of boots, the imprint of smaller bare feet. A faint splatter of red blood amid the tidal black spill of the enemy bodies. "Blood. Boromir was wounded, though I think not severely," Aragorn said, piecing together the puzzle in his own mind as well as painting it for his desperately listening friends.

"Ahh, no," Gimli sighed. Then, more hopefully, "Perhaps just the arm wound re-opened?

"It did. But it left a different trail, droplets from beneath the bandage and clothing. This is the sudden surge of a fresh wound." He followed the trail only a few paces further, said grimly, "It brought him to his knees, right here. Look."

He held out a broken off arrow shaft, bright with red blood.

"Not again," Gimli growled. "Twice in near as many days. Cursed murderous archers!" Realising what he had said, he glanced swiftly to his companions, "No offence."

"We agree," Legolas said. "Enemy paws should never sully so fine a weapon."

Aragorn had not been listening, too intent on his work as he ran his fingertips over the ground, seeking, forcing revelation. "The enemy stood over him, for some time. Another two stood here -- they held the Hobbits. But, ahh no –"

"What?" Gimli demanded.

"I fear one of the Hobbits was hurt, perhaps after breaking free to go to Boromir. He was thrown down here, and heavily, close to where Boromir knelt."

Gimli swore and put the sword down point first to rub a hand over his face. He pushed his gloved hand beneath his helm to scratch at his sweaty hair then at his beard. "So, what are we waiting for? We go after them before any more harm can come to them!"

"Exactly," Legolas agreed.

"Which way did they go?" Gimli asked, looking set to break into a run though Aragorn knew he was all but spent after the afternoon's heavy fighting.

"Saruman," Aragorn said grimly, meeting his friend's fiercely determined eyes. "The traitor of Isengard."

Gimli frowned, his lowered, bushy eyebrows all but hiding his bright gaze. "He would have known then, from Gandalf?"

"That Halflings carry the Ring," Aragorn nodded. "Yes. But Gandalf did not tell him, though he was long held captive. Saruman was well able to figure it for himself, with Sauron's aid, with the aid of spies, by watching our journeying. He very nearly killed us all on Caradhras."

"But –" Gimli hesitated as if afraid of his own question. "Saruman will want them alive?"

"Yes. At least until he has the Ring."  
"Well, he won't find it!" Gimli snorted, pleased at the thought, then catching Aragorn's expression, the moment's victory faded. "He won't be too happy about that."

"He will not know," Aragorn said, standing to clap Gimli's shoulder. "For his captives will never be delivered to him."

"Yes! " Gimli lifted his battle axe in salute, then had to juggle to stop Boromir's sword from falling back into the mud.

Aragorn took Boromir's weapon and slung it across his back, into one of the leather loops there. "First we see Legolas healed enough to run at our side."

"I will catch you up," Legolas protested.

Aragorn shook his head and met his friend's gaze with an expression that dared objection. "No. Never again will I leave a wounded friend alone, without defence. None of our friends would have been taken this day had we but stood together."

"You cannot know that," Legolas said. "And the enemy are long since gone. I will be safe alone."

"We do this together. I have seen how quickly Elves heal. How long do you think?"

"By midnight, if not sooner."  
"Then we wait," Gimli put in, backing Aragorn. "We'll not leave you, lad."

Legolas scowled. "I am not a lad."

"You look like one. Come, let's get back to camp. Get a fire going."

"We will run the faster for some hot food under our belts," Aragorn nodded, relieved the matter was settled. "And we will fight the harder when we catch them, for we will do so, and soon. The Uruks are weary, some are wounded, and they are heavily burdened, for they carry Boromir as well as the Hobbits."

"Boromir?"

"He is wounded, but too, I fear, he is angry, very angry. He attacked them after they hurt one of his Little Ones."

"Good for him! He'll do it again, too, no doubt. We best catch them fast if he's not to annoy them too much."

"We will. We have the advantage of the ground."

"We do?"

Legolas, getting to his feet with Aragorn's aid, smiled down at Gimli. "We do. Some years ago, Aragorn and I discovered a faster way, a better way from the lake through Rohan to the Entwash. We were tracking an enemy then, also."

"Oh? Who?"

"Gollum."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven Captured

It had been by far the worst night of Pippin's life. Worse even than the night Frodo had been wounded by the Witch King, for Aragorn had been there to help, to heal.

In the darkness, jostled by the Uruk who carried him roughly, Pippin had been able only to catch brief moonlit glimpses of his unconscious friends. Now, as the grey pre-dawn light softly pushed back the night, he almost wished it was still too dark to see. Merry's brow was coated in thick red blood, his wound had stopped bleeding, but he was so white and still.

Boromir looked worse. Much worse. Slung upside down over his Uruk bearer's shoulder, hands bound at his back, he hung head down. The Uruk's shoulder dug into his chest, jolting him with each jogging step. That pounding, combined with the awkward posture was making it very difficult for Boromir to breathe. Pippin yelled repeatedly at them to stop, but they ignored him.

He watched helplessly as Boromir's face went from white to blue, and his breathing, ragged and uneven, lessened to an intermittent painful grunt and gulp. He was bleeding, too, though not terribly heavily, from the leg wound that had not been bandaged after the arrow shaft had been roughly pulled out. At least Pippin was glad the Man had been unconscious for that.

Fury brimmed, making Pippin's head hurt with the need to attack. He shouted into his captor's ear, "Are you all blind, or stupid, or both?"

"Shut it, little rat!" the creature snarled, trying to turn and look at him, then shaking him.

"You're carrying a dead Man," Pippin said. "Take a look and see."

"Dead?"

"He's not breathing."

That got some reaction at last. The Uruk stumbled to a halt, making those behind him also stop, cursing him. "Lurtz!" he bellowed.

"I said we do not stop!" the one so named, the leader arrived to snarl at Pippin's bearer.

"The prisoner, the Man, this one thinks he's dead. And he do look it."

"What?" Lurtz went to the other Uruk and grabbed at Boromir's limply lolling head, pulling it up by the hair. Lurtz listened a moment, then swore. "Put him down! Slow! He needs medicine."

Pippin could have cheered, but was too choked by relief. He watched as Boromir was lowered rather than thrown down. With the strain and the weight at last released, Boromir's chest heaved and he groaned as he drew a painful breath. It was difficult to tell in the early light but Pippin thought the blueness had gone from about his lips.

Lurtz pulled what looked like a water skin from his belt and snarled, "Get his mouth open!"

The other obeyed, yanking at Boromir's jaw. Lurtz tipped the skin up and a thick black liquid oozed from it, flowing into Boromir's open mouth. It smelled utterly foul, for Pippin could pick out its odour even above that of the filthy enemy bodies. Boromir coughed and choked, retched, his entire body shaking into spasms against the onslaught.

"Not like that!" Pippin yelled. "You'll choke him!"

A huge Uruk hand landed on Pippin's mouth, stifling both words and breath for long moments. He watched, burning with helpless rage, but then saw with relief that Boromir was responding. His breathing settled, and he turned on his side, spat out some of the putrid liquid.

"That's got 'is attention!" one of the Uruks said and the others laughed.

"Now for the other one," Lurtz said.

Pippin wasn't sure whether to protest or not, the medicine, horrible as it was, seemed to be working on Boromir at least. Merry was roughly held out for treatment, shaken until his teeth rattled when he moaned.

"Stop yer whinin' ya little rat!" his bearer sneered.

"Get his mouth open!" Lurtz said impatiently.

"This one bites. You do it."

"One way to stop that," Lurtz growled. He bent and picked up a stick, then rammed it between Merry's teeth. "Bite that if you want!" He laughed and as the other held a waking Merry tight, he poured the liquid down Merry's throat.

"He'll choke! Stop it! He can't swallow like that!" Pippin cried. "Merry! No!"

Lurtz grunted as all the air left his lungs and he stumbled forward, dropping the medicine skin. Pippin blinked surprise.

"Don't touch, him!"

Boromir's voice, a hoarse whisper but livid with cold threat all the same. He was on his knees, had fallen after ramming Lurtz aside.

"Boromir!" Pippin called, grateful and afraid in equal measure. Boromir turned to look up at him, but was kicked in the back and sent sprawling. "No! You need him alive!" Pippin shouted desperately.

"You dare!" Lurtz snarled. Recovering, he stood over Boromir, then cast a sneer at Pippin. "Alive don't mean pretty! Hold him, boys!"

Others hauled Boromir up and Lurtz drew his knife. Pippin closed his eyes, and begged for someone, anyone to help. Merry lay coughing on the ground, his hands bound, as were Pippin's. And this time there was no Aragorn to arrive to fight off the enemy. There was a sickening crack and a grunt of pain from Boromir. Pippin looked back to see blood streaming from a swelling split in the Man's cheek, his eyes closed, unconscious. They let him fall.

"Consider yerself lucky I didn't cut him," Lurtz spat, seeing Pippin's wide-eyed horror. "' n that only as my master will be most glad to have him alive and do the cuttin' his self." He turned back to the others and roared, "We've stopped long enough. Keep movin'!"

"We've run all night, and all the day before, " an Orc protested. "We need a breather."

Lurtz stalked to the complainer and towered over him. "Say that again and you'll have another hole to breathe through." He hefted the knife, and cowered, the smaller creature nodded and backed away.

A thudding of bootsteps heralded the arrival of one of the rear scouts. "We're bein hunted. I smell Man flesh a few leagues behind." he announced breathlessly. "Why are we stopped?"

"Move!" Lurtz roared. "Run like you've never run before!"

Lurtz hefted Boromir over his shoulder, Merry's bearer picked him up, and the group broke into a lurching sprint.

"Aragorn!" Pippin gasped relief.

"Leave no tracks!" Lurtz ordered. "Make for the rocks!"

The enemy group began veering aside, leaping and climbing off the grassy plain up into a jumble of boulders. Pippin decided a trail marker was in order. He'd been waiting the right moment, having earlier worked the elven brooch at his throat loose. He gripped it in his teeth, turned his head, and spat it as far from his bearer as possible. Then he prayed. Maybe Aragorn and the others would yet save them.

But as the dawn grew bright amid a flaring of red clouds, Pippin could see no sign of hunters far behind. The day dragged on, becoming hot under a clear blue sky. Merry was awake now, able to exchange a smile, but dared not speak for fear of reprisal. Both Hobbits constantly sought a glimpse of Boromir who, carried by Lurtz, was at the head of the group, and usually out of sight. Whenever they did see him, he looked bad, bloodied face and leg, but at least he no longer struggling for every breath.

The scout returned at regular intervals, always reporting that the hunters had dropped further behind. Pippin could barely believe it, hadn't Aragorn found the brooch? Where was he? Finally as the sun set and darkness closed in once more, the scout reported that they could not be seen at all. The hours dragged on, the night cold under a starlit sky, the moon lowering toward a purple hill-framed horizon. Orcs and one or two Uruks began collapsing, falling to their knees and kicked until they got up, only to fall again.

"We stop or we die!" the leading Orc said, and signaled his troupe to halt.

Lurtz stopped abruptly and dropped Boromir heavily, then stood rubbing his shoulder. Even he appeared exhausted, a darker heaving shadow against the twilight sky. He had run all day carrying the Man. Pippin smiled. Perhaps that would teach him not to knock his captives senseless.

"We stop," he agreed. "But we move again at dawn."

That hour, Pippin realized, was not far off. Suddenly, his bound hands were lifted from about his bearer's neck and he fell, landing hard on long tussocks of grass. Ahead of him, Merry suffered the same fate.

Oy! Watch it!" Merry protested, letting Pippin know where he was in the dark, and that he was awake.

Pippin waited a moment, then seeing his captors busy hunting for food in their belt pouches, or simply sprawling for rest, he dared crawl forward on his elbows.

"Pip?" Merry called.

"Here," Pippin answered in a whisper. Then, at last, he was by his cousin's side. "Merry!" he said tearfully, and wished he had his hands free to hug him. "Are you all right?"

"Just a scratch. Where's Boromir?"

"Over that way, I think. Not far."

"Come on, then."

"Watch it, you little maggots!" an Orc snarled as they almost bumped into him in the dark. "Where do ya think yer goin'?"

"Nowhere, just to our friend. He's hurt."

"Let 'em go to him," Lurtz said tiredly. "Let 'em wake him up."

"Tired, Lurtz?" the Orc said, sneering. "Don't hit so hard next time."

"Shut it, Snaga!"

"There he is," Pippin said. The darkness lessened as a flame was struck, the Orcs daring a camp fire and he could see better. Boromir was still unconscious, on his side, facing them. Crawling on his elbows, he and Merry hurriedly closed the gap.

"I think he's breathing better," Pippin said hopefully.

"But he's so white," Merry doubted. "And he hasn't moved all day. His leg's still bleeding."

"Only a bit," Pippin denied. "He's strong, Merry. He'll be all right, won't he?"

"I don't know," Merry said slowly. Awkward with his bound hands, he picked up the corner of his cloak and dabbed at the blood on Boromir's bruised face. "I think his cheek's broken"

He cleaned the blood away, trying to see it more clearly. Then Pippin heard Merry's hissed breath of shock.

"What?"

"There's blood on his mouth. Fresh blood, from inside." He turned and looked at Pippin, desperation and real fear dark in the eyes beneath the red-brown stain on his forehead.

"Aragorn might still get here in time," Pippin said, begging Merry to believe it, but his cousin avoided his gaze. "He can't die, Merry! He can't!"

"Don't worry about 'im, little rats," an Orc sneered from the darkness to their right. "'E's for the cookin' pot, that one!"

"No!" Pippin got to his feet to glare at the creature. "You lie! Lurtz needs him alive."

"He's dyin'," Snaga said, arriving to shove Pippin aside and poke a boot into Boromir's side. He looked at the other Orcs gathered hungrily by their small fire. "I say we eat him while e's still fresh."

"No!" Lurtz roared and staggered to his feet to join them. "Orders are we deliver them to Saruman, unspoiled!"

"The Halflings, he said," Snaga corrected. "Didn't say nuthin' about a Man. He's heavy! You wanna carry him all the way back?"

"If 'e's carried, 'e don't need 'is legs," another whined. It shuffled closer to sniff at the blood on Boromir's body. "We could eat those. Plenty 'o meat there."

"No!" Lurtz roared again. He kicked dirt onto the beginning fire and the Orcs sitting about it jumped to their feet, ready to fight.

"Horse soldiers!" Someone yelled warning from the rear of the group. "They're –"

The words ended in a grunting cough. Arrows hummed through the dark, taking out Uruks and Orcs who thudded to earth amid the thunder of hooves, the swish of sabers and the bellow of war cries. Lurtz and the other enemy nearest to the captives collected weapons and ran back a few paces to bolster the defence.

"Quick!" Merry said, scrambling away from an enemy writhing with a burning arrow in its guts. "We're getting out of here!" He elbowed Pippin, who rolled nearer to Boromir.

"We'll be trampled!" Pippin screamed as a horse charged from out the blackness directly at them. At the last second it reared, its hooves flashing red and gold, reflecting the flames of a hail of burning arrows. Merry and Pippin threw themselves atop Boromir's head and shoulders. The horse's legs brushed their clothing and the thump as its hooves met ground jolted through them.

"That was close!" Merry said. "Come on! Help me get Boromir moving!"

Together they shoved, getting their shoulders into the Man's broad back. He rolled but only flopped onto his face and they grabbed at his bound arms, trying to heave him further. It was too slow, he was too heavy and Merry was almost blacking out with the effort.

Merry cursed. "Find a knife!"" Sitting faint and panting, he waved a double fist at the dead Orcs. "Keep low!"

Pippin hunted in the dark chaos of battle, horses screaming and enemy snarling and falling all around. His bound hands were soon slick with black Orc blood as he searched amid mangled limbs. He didn't want to think what his feet were slipping and sliding in. Then he felt it, a sharp hard edge beneath a trampled body. "Here!" he cried. "Got it."

He sat, sawing at his bonds and pulling against them at the same time. The ropes snapped and he crawled back to Merry, aiding him in ducking down to cover Boromir from flying hooves as another horse closed in. Every horse jumped clear of them even though they happily stomped the Orcs or Uruks they came across.

"Turn around," Pippin instructed, pleased to see his cousin breathing more evenly and much recovered.

It was much easier going to cut these bonds than it had been to saw through his own, one careful chop did it. He turned immediately to do the same for Boromir, only to find his bonds cruelly tight, digging deep into flesh long since gone numb and blue-white. He hoped beyond hope that somehow the Man may yet wake to aid the escape. But, in the dim light of beginning dawn, he saw the tell-tale trail of more blood staining his friend's lightly bearded jaw.

_He's dyin'!_ Snaga's words returned to bring a lump to Pippin's throat. There was still time, if they could just find Aragorn, bring him to the Man--

"Now!" Merry said as the ropes snapped . "Push him over that way, it slopes down."

It was hard going for the first few yards, and more than once the best they could do was to again throw themselves protectively over Boromir, not daring to trust the charging horse would somehow sense the difference between Orc and Man. They covered their own heads against the flaying hooves as a horse went down, felled by an arrow that could only have come from Lurtz' bow. The rider leapt up, saber in hand, and was quickly hauled into the saddle behind a friend.

Merry and Pippin yelled at the Man but were not heard over the roar of battle. They resumed pushing and pulling at Boromir's limp, heavy body, laboring, grunting and sweating with the effort. But, not much further on, the plateau came to an abrupt halt, its edge giving way to a steep incline. Far below they could just make out the darker blot of a great forest.

"We'll be safe in there!" Merry declared. "Come on!"

"There are rocks all over the place," Pippin said. "Big ones. And it's so steep." It could be a deadly fall for an already gravely ill and injured Man. "Maybe we could wait and see –"

"There you are, yer little rats! Think you can get away, did ya? Snaga sees ya!"

"They're mine!" Lurtz rumbled and his larger shadow loomed over the Orc.

"Ours!" Snaga retorted.

"Go!" Merry yelled.

Together he and Pippin booted Boromir over the edge and leaped after him. His body quickly gathered momentum, rolling faster and faster, hitting jutting rocks and logs and bouncing up and over them, thudding ever downward.

Merry and Pippin soon suffered the same fate, losing balance and tripping on the uneven ground. Pippin dropped and lost the knife. They hurtled downward, closer and closer to the looming forest wall. There came a mighty jarring thud and a grunt of pain as Boromir slammed into a massive tree trunk, rebounded back a little, and lay still. Pippin realised that he and his cousin would be knocked cold and recaptured should they too impact so heavily.

"Aim for Boromir!" he shouted to Merry, who cast him a harried look, fighting for control of his plummeting roll.

A moment later, Pippin slammed into Boromir's back, moving aside just in time to avoid Merry. He winced as he heard all the air leave Boromir's lungs in a grunting 'oof!'

"It worked," Pippin said, sitting up to rub at a bruised elbow.

"Of course it did! Come on, get him into the forest!"

Pippin stood and glanced up hill, toward the East, where the sun was beginning to rise. There were several hunched shapes, blades waving as they fought for balance, taking their time, edging more carefully on the steep terrain. "Curse them!" he snapped. "Lurtz and some others, still coming!"

"Move!" Merry yelled. "Get Boromir under cover!"

They grabbed an arm each and heaved. The Man was a dead weight, too heavy and cumbersome to move very far before snagging on littered branches and rocks. The enemy was rapidly gaining and even should they find a place to hide, would smell the blood on Boromir's body.

"Wake up, Boromir!" they shouted as they shoved and heaved. But he did not respond, other than to groan and blink a little. Considering the fall he had taken on already damaged ribs and lungs it was a wonder he still breathed.

"There!" Merry exclaimed. "A stream. Some cold water on his face might do it! It's his only chance!"

But that was easier said than done.

The banks were overgrown and they had nothing in which to carry water. They tried to angle Boromir so that his head was close to the water where they could splash him. Instead, his weight caused the bank to collapse and his entire body toppled into the icy stream. He landed face down, and the Hobbits scrambled, jumping in after him to lift his head from the water.

"Wha-?" Boromir coughed, spitting water and blood. He shook his head, getting drenched hair out of his eyes. He blinked dazedly at them. It was very gloomy on the forest floor.

"Boromir!" Merry exclaimed, hugging him quickly.

"The Orcs are after us!" Pippin added a loud whisper, hearing the creatures crashing through the underbrush.

"Orcs?" Boromir struggled stiffly to sit up. His arm flayed about in the water, searching for his sword and splashing loudly.

"Shh! They'll hear you!" The Hobbits propped him until he was sitting hip deep in the stream.

"We got away," Pippin said.

Boromir got to his knees and then fell back to sit on the bank and try to push himself to his feet. He did not have the strength and cursed as he realised he had no weapon. He searched around himself, feeling for rocks, branches, anything.

"Over here!" an Orc voice called. "I can smell 'em!"

"Leave me!" Boromir urged. Swiveling around, he shoved his body fully out of the stream, getting his booted feet up onto the bank. He rolled to his hands and knees.

"What? No!"

"Do it!" he snarled, then began coughing, spitting more blood. "I'm b-bait. Go!"

"Find some big rocks, Pip."

"Right. We'll jump them from up there." Pippin, already digging a large rock from the mud, tilted his chin toward a stand of logs and boulders to his right.

"Hurry!" Boromir hissed, struggling futilely to get to his feet.

They cast desperate glances at him, scrambling into cover among ferns, completely hidden. Boromir rolled onto his back, his arms beneath him and played dead only just in time.

"Here's the big one," Snaga said, and its foul breath panted directly over Boromir's face. Two more Orcs joined him, saying, "We got him all to ourselves. Finders keepers. We ain't draggin' him up that hill. Time to eat – oof!"

Boromir slammed his knees into the creature's gut, then gasped at the jolt to his wounded leg.

The other two stepped closer, blades raised. Merry and Pippin leaped out from cover, hefting rocks half as big as themselves. Merry hit his target full on the head, and it went down dead. Pippin missed but managed to strike the weapon arm and the blade fell free. The creature spat rage and turned toward him. Boromir rolled, hunting with clumsy hands for the blade, unable to grasp it. He head butted the thing from behind, and Merry finished it off with his rock, pounding its face as it went down.

"Get the knife!" Boromir rasped, hearing more enemy coming toward them. The one he had kicked recovered to join them, apparently no longer keen on single combat.

A monstrous Uruk suddenly jumped over a log to land in front of them. Boromir stumbled to his knees, one hand clutching his side, his mouth working, wheezing for air. The Uruk charged and he ducked his shoulder into it, flipping it backwards and trying to kick it in the head. But his wounded leg crumpled and he fell gasping and dizzy to his side, his strength gone. The Uruk swung and the flat of its blade glanced across the top of Boromir's skull. His body jerked with the blow and rolled, face first into the mud. He did not move again.

"Give me that knife!" the Uruk snarled, swiveling to find Merry standing with it in his hands.

"If you insist," Merry said with a feral grin.

He threw as Boromir had taught him and the Uruk doubled over, the blade buried in its gut. But more were arriving, and as Pippin stepped forward to throw rocks, Lurtz appeared from behind. He crouched and hauled Boromir back by the hair, twisting to put his knife to the Man's throat.

"Give it up or he dies!"

"All right!" Merry said, lifting his hands. "Just let him –"

Lurtz grunted a shocked breath. An arrow suddenly sprouted from his face, going through one cheek and out the other. Then more arrows made his head a pincushion. He dropped the knife and toppled slowly forward, square on top of Boromir.

Merry and Pippin were as astonished as the remaining enemy, jumping as they heard swords clashing in the other direction. The two Uruks who stood nearby also fell to arrows.

***


	8. Chapter 8 Escape

Chapter Eight Escape

"Legolas!" Aragorn heard the Hobbits' sobbing cry and relief made his gut weak.

He stalked clear of the trees, splashing through the stream, Gimli at his side, their weapons at the ready but finding no more enemy alive.

"Aragorn! Gimli!" Merry and Pippin wept with relief.

Legolas appeared from the opposite direction, an arrow nocked but no longer needed.

The Hobbits stared in disbelief, tears streaking their dirty and bloodied faces. They did not run to him, and Aragorn froze, turning but still unable to see Boromir. He stepped up out of the stream and the Hobbits threw themselves into their friends' embrace, Merry to Aragorn, Pippin to Gimli.

"You escaped!" Gimli congratulated.

"Where is Boromir?" Aragorn demanded.

"Under him," Legolas said, moving toward Lurtz' body.

"Help us," Merry ordered, bending to heave at the giant Uruk's dead weight.

Aragorn and Gimli moved quickly to their aid, Legolas also carefully prising the heavy enemy from atop the Man. They gently lifted Boromir clear of the mud and lay him on the mossy stream bank.

Aragorn hissed dismay. It was difficult to tell where Boromir's injuries began. He seemed torn and bruised and bloody from brow to knees. The whiteness of his face was stark against blood and bruising, his left cheek torn open and swollen so badly that the eye above was almost closed over. Obviously broken, the cheek was bisected by a ragged gash that oozed dark red blood ingrained with mud and filth

"His ribs are the worst, I think," Merry said. "They kicked him a lot." Despite his effort at control, his lip trembled as he added, "Whenever he tried to help us."

Gimli lay a hand to his shoulder in sympathy and asked, "You're hurt? Let me see that cut."

"It's nothing," Merry insisted. "But Boromir –"

"We had to roll him all the way down here and he's bleeding." Pippin explained, meeting Aragorn's eyes to add grimly. "Inside."

Hiding his horrified reaction, Aragorn dropped to his knees at the unconscious Man's side. Black Orc gore splattered the rest of him, highlighting his ashen pallor. More blood seeped from the savagely torn wound in his thigh; Aragorn could see it was no ordinary arrow wound but had been deliberately worsened in torture. But it was the by comparison innocuously small spill of blood from his lips that was most alarming.

Laying a hand to the chest, he could feel the swelling and damage. Anyone of the Man's several broken ribs could have pierced a lung. Aragorn bent lower and lay his head gently to the battered chest to listen for the deadly sound of air leaking into the chest cavity and blood bubbling in the throat.

"You rolled him down here?" Gimli said, sounding like someone who believed he had misunderstood. "You don't mean from --?" He tilted his head to look high toward the rocky hill that could not be fully seen through the trees. Only its peak stood clear in the morning sun.

Merry and Pippin nodded, exchanging grim glances. "All the way from the top," Merry said, making Gimli and Legolas gape in shock.

"We had to!" Pippin cried. "We couldn't leave him, and …" He gulped a breath, stopping himself from crying, and wiping his sleeve over his nose.

"I can imagine their plans. You chose the right thing," Legolas said, looking away from the hill to grasp Pippin's small arm and squeeze in reassurance.

"He'd be dead by now if you had left him up there," Gimli said, trying to lessen the impact his shocked reaction had caused. "You did well, very well, to get him out of there."

Merry nodded, slung one arm about Pippin, and trying to hide the fact his legs would no longer hold him, sat down pulling his shaking cousin with him to Boromir's side. "We knew he was already hurt badly," Merry said, Pippin adding, "We didn't want to, we had to – He'd have been trampled if we hadn't dragged him out of the way."

"Trampled?" Legolas asked.

"Men on horses attacked the Uruks. That's how we got away, in the middle of the battle."

Aragorn glanced up to meet Legolas' eyes. "The Rohirrim!"

"If only we had seen them first," Legolas said. "They are no longer close by. Some horses would have been most useful."

Aragorn stifled a curse and rubbed a hand over his face. "We could have taken Boromir to Edoras."

"We tried to call out to the riders," Merry said. "But they didn't hear us."

"Boromir is a friend of theirs, I remember him saying," Pippin added. "We tried to wake him, but he didn't until he rolled into the stream. We didn't mean for him to get so wet, but it did wake him. He wanted us to leave him!"

"He fought them," Merry said. "Aragorn, how bad is it? I mean, if he was fighting just a moment ago --

Aragorn spared time from his careful examination of Boromir's breathing to look at them in disbelief. The Man's lung had been pierced. "He fought them?" he repeated. "You mean, just now?"

The Hobbits nodded, and Legolas put in, "He took down two of them before he was knocked out."

Aragorn shook his head in frustration. "I believe, but I don't see how it's possible. He should not be able to stand. Come, we must get him warm. He is soaked to the skin. Help me carry him into the sunlight beyond the forest."

"He fought them on his knees, the same as he did before," Pippin said, proud and worried all at once.

"We waited and hoped for you to show up," Merry said, "but then the Orcs said they couldn't see you tracking us anymore."

"I am sorry," Legolas said, giving him a regretful glance. "We did find your elven brooch, that was very well done, Pippin."

"You lost your brooch?" Merry asked, only now noticing.

"I dropped it, to show the way," Pippin corrected absently, watching as Aragorn and Legolas began lifting the injured Man.

"Oh, good work," Merry said. He looked back at Aragorn and Legolas. "Then why – why did you disappear?"

"We knew they had seen us and you were hostages," Legolas explained.

"So," Gimli said, "we circled round to come at them from the front, through the forest and up the hill."

"Careful now," Aragorn advised Legolas as he shifted his grip on Boromir's upper body. "Keep him as steady as possible. The broken ribs have cut him inside."

"It is so damp and chill in this cursed forest, it will be difficult finding dry wood for a fire, " Gimli growled. "He needs a good, roaring blaze and that takes a lot of –"

An ominous rumbling rippled through the trees, trunks groaned and loomed over their heads threateningly. Branches creaked and strained forward like clawed reaching hands. There was not the least breeze to stir them.

"Hush, Gimli" Legolas warned. "The trees hear you! We will gather no wood here."

"They what?" Gimli snorted skeptically.

A branch moved and tipped his helm, its smaller twigs pulling at his beard. He backed away and corrected hastily, "And such magnificent fine specimens of trees they are too!" He looked nervously up at them. "Why I have never before beheld such leafy beauty."

The trees settled back and Legolas shook his head with exasperation. The Elf had warned the Dwarf several times that this was no ordinary forest.

"Gimli," Legolas said, noticing the Hobbits' trembling fatigue "Can you help –"

"Of course, of course. Come, Merry, lean on me. Pippin you take the other side."

"I'm all right," Merry said. "No need to fuss."

"We will fuss over you all we want," Gimli objected and hugged him tight. "I was so worried. I don't ever want to go through another day and night like that."

"Me neither," Pippin shivered, and Gimli's free arm wrapped about his small shoulders. "Frodo and Sam got away safely then?"

"Yes. We saw them reach the other side of the lake. Thanks to you."

"And Boromir," they chorused.

Gimli grunted agreement.

Between them, Aragorn and Legolas managed to gently carry their heavy, unconscious friend over and around a tangle of tree roots and low branches, clumps of damp ferns, and hidden rocks. They followed the stream to a gap through which sunlight streamed into a meadow at the foot of the hill by the forest's edge. How the Hobbits had moved the Man at all was a wonder.

They slowly set Boromir down in a sitting position and Legolas propped him against his chest, his own back against a boulder. Aragorn removed his weapons and slipped Boromir's sword from his back along with the horn, then stripped out of his long leather coat and lay it over the dew-wet ground. They had not carried their bedrolls, needing to run light and long.

"You found his sword!" Merry exclaimed. Pippin finishing, "And you have the horn!"

"We're glad," Merry said. "He'll need those." He frowned at the fresh blood trickling over Boromir's lower lip. "Right?"

"So I hope," Aragorn said softly. "But he is very badly hurt."

"And cold," Legolas whispered, "so cold."

Aragorn looked at his Elf friend sharply, recognizing that tone – Legolas had connected with the Man on more than a physical level, had found his spirit wandering.

"A fire, I need a fire!" Aragorn snapped. _"And I have nothing, __**nothing**__, with which to tend him! _ He added in Elvish, needing to express his frustration._"_

Pippin slapped Merry on the shoulder and got an "Ow!" and a what –was- that- for- look, before he said, "That Orc medicine! Lurtz had it!"

"Oh! Right!" Merry said, and they staggered past their friends into the forest.

"Won't be long," Gimli said, "And I'll be back with some firewood." He strode off toward the forest, axe over his shoulder.

"No, Gimli!" Legolas said in urgent warning. "Do not go near the trees with that axe. They are already not happy with you."

"Not happy! They're only trees!"

"Trees of Fangorn Forest," Legolas said tersely.

"Oh." Gimli looked fearfully from the brooding dark wall of entwined branches and trunks, then turned to frown worry at Boromir. "He must have a fire. I will risk the forest."

"No!" Legolas repeated. "You will not return. Search the hill side, there may be windfall."

Gimli nodded. "Very well. But if I don't find fuel I will fight the trees for it!"

Legolas groaned. "At least keep your voice down."

Gimli stomped away, heading up hill.

"Try this," Pippin said, returning panting to sit on his heels and hold out a grubby water skin. "It's the medicine the Orcs used on Merry and Boromir. It stinks but it works."

Aragorn sniffed it and recoiled. "You're sure?"

"Yes," Pippin said, Merry arriving looking sickly, the wound on his forehead bleeding again. He added his confirmation with a nod of his head.

"Hold him for me," Aragorn said to Legolas. Pippin helped, gripping the Man's mouth and keeping it open, as Aragorn fed him some of the black liquid. Then they waited. Boromir coughed once, and his breathing became stronger for a few moments, but quickly relapsed. The bleeding from the mouth did not slow.

"Here, wrap these about him, they make good blankets," Merry and Pippin said, giving over their cloaks. "And our coats for pillows and our shirts will make bandages. His leg looks bad."

"You also are hurt and cold." Touched, Aragorn spared them a smile against his growing fear that Boromir would be dead inside the hour. "And you're bleeding, Merry."

"Oh?" Merry wiped distractedly at the cut on his brow. "It's nothing. I must have scratched it again getting out of the forest, is all."

"Boromir near died for us," Pippin added fiercely, "he gets whatever we have to give."

Aragorn gave a great pained sigh, exhaustion clawing through him like a cold wind across a barren plain. He collected a fist full of reed-like grass, twisted it to form a spill and used that to wipe away the dirt clotted about the leg wound. There was nothing he could do for the internal injury, he had no medicines, and even if he did they would not avail Boromir, not without Elven healing.

Aragorn's chest constricted at the image of Legolas and himself holding the Man, helpless, watching him die. It would not be so! It could not be so! Aragorn determined. There was a way, it was dangerous to himself, but about that he no longer cared. He would return to Gondor with Boromir or not at all. If he could just bring his friend to consciousness, bind his will to his own –

Finished with wrapping all their cloaks about the Man, the Hobbits stood back a little. Aragorn took his water skin, earlier refilled from the stream they had been following through Fangorn half the night. Gently, he poured some into the thigh wound, needing to see how badly it had been torn, how badly infected by Orc filth.

Boromir gasped and rolled free of Legolas' arms, part way to his side. At the same time, he aimed a feeble kick at Aragorn's stomach.

"Leave them be!" Boromir whispered, hoarse, weak, but full of dire threat for those who would harm his Little Ones.

"Steady!" Legolas urged, pulling him back against his chest.

"Friends!" Aragorn said.

He need not have worried for Boromir's frail strength was spent. He lay back in Legolas' warm arms, watching groggy and sick as Aragorn bent over him. He blinked and squinted, dazzled by the bright morning light at Aragorn's back.

"A-Aragorn?" he mumbled. "How?" Then urgently, "Merry? Pippin?"

"Here!" They responded, coming closer to kneel at his other side and take hold of his hand and arm. "We're all right, Boromir, we're safe now."

Slowly, Boromir turned his head and stared blankly at them a moment. His brow furrowed as he fought to accept this new reality. "We escaped?"

"Yes. We rescued you," Pippin corrected with some pride.

"Orcs?"

"Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli killed any that were hunting us," Merry said.

"Oh, good," Boromir leaned forward a fraction, focusing on the blood on the Hobbit's forehead. "Aragorn," he said, the word fading to so faint a whisper it was barely audible, "Tend that cut."

His eyes closed and a smile touched his bruised lips. "Safe." He found strength to pat the small hands that had gripped his arm. "Proud of you." His head lolled limp against Legolas' chest.

"No!" Aragorn exclaimed in utter anguish, feeling Boromir's life slipping away from him.

"He is spent," Legolas said. "He sees his duty done. He has earned rest."

Suddenly furious at the Elvish resignation he had often known in himself, Aragorn met his long-time friend's gaze and snapped, "His weariness and his wounds make this choice, not Boromir!"

"Here you!" Pippin shook Boromir's arm. "Don't you leave us now!"

There was not the least twitch of response.

"He knows we're safe now, Pip," Merry said with heavy sorrow. "He can't breathe any more."

Pippin sniffed and wiped at his eyes. "He can't go, Merry! He mustn't! I won't let him!"

Merry squeezed his friend's arm with helpless sympathy, too choked to say more.

"Boromir!" Pippin shook the Man again. "You listen to me! What about Faramir? He needs you, too! And so does your city!"

Aragorn saw a flicker of movement, Boromir's eyes moving beneath the lids, as if desperate to wake. "Keep talking to him," he said. "His body is broken and weak beyond weak. His spirit drifts. Yet he would come back if he were healed. I will hold him."

"Aragorn! No!" Legolas begged. "You cannot –"

It was too late. Aragorn had already entered the Healer's trance, his head bowed to his chest, eyes closed and both hands gripping Boromir's right.

"What's wrong?" Pippin asked.

Legolas dared not look away from Aragorn's strained face. "He is close to collapse. He does not have the strength."

_No. He does not_, a clear calm voice spoke in Legolas' mind. _He will die in the effort rather than abandon him._

"Who?" Legolas said aloud. Gently, quickly, he lay Boromir down and stood. "The Traitor!" He saw a gleam of white robes against the dark wall of the forest.

"Saruman!" Gimli growled, dumping his scant armload of wood and bringing his axe to the ready.

"Where?" Pippin and Merry cried.

Legolas drew his bow and nocked an arrow all in one motion. The Hobbits hunted for rocks. Aragorn remained unmoving, unaware.

"He approaches," Legolas said. "Beware his spells."

The flash of white became dazzling, painfully bright. The white garbed figure emerged from the dense green shadows, radiating power. Legolas fired the arrow, but it exploded in flame and vanished. Gimli cried out, his axe glowing red-hot and falling from his grasp.

"Is this any fit greeting for an old friend?"

The blinding light faded and the white figure moved closer.

"Gandalf!" Legolas felt a joy flood him the like of which he had never known in all his long life. "Gandalf!"

"It cannot be!" Gimli cried.

"It! It is!" The Hobbits abandoned caution and rushed to embrace their old friend.

Gandalf went down on one knee, smiling to take them in his arms. "Here now, here now," he crooned. They began to weep, repeatedly sobbing, "You were dead!"

"I have come back. Let me go now. I must aid Boromir and Aragorn. They have gone dangerously far from us."

"You can?" Hope burned bright in their eyes as they turned to look at the wounded Man.

"So I believe." Gandalf got to his feet. "Boromir has entered the borders of the realm from which I have just returned."

"He's dying, you mean!" Merry said flatly.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine The Brothers

"Captain?" Garad repeated, even more worried that Faramir had not responded. He continued walking, like someone who was not really awake, in a trance.

_Oh,_ Garad realised. _Oh shit. It's one of those things, a premonition, or a vision, or whatever he calls it._

He hurried closer as Faramir headed over the pebbles and gravel flat of the shore to the river, his bootsteps crunching loudly in the silence. Everyone else was asleep, he and Faramir had the watch.

"Faramir?" he asked, trying the more familiar term hoping it would reach him, wake him. "Where are you going?

The sun had not yet risen on a cold grey dawn, hidden by the mountains and dark clouds at their back. The river looked ominous, a swirling foreboding black ribbon beneath the dull metallic sky.

"To the river," Faramir answered.

His voice made Garad shiver. It was hollow, distant. But at least he was talking. "I can see that," he said, forcing a casual tone. "Why?"

Faramir had reached the water's edge but he did not slow. He stepped into it as if he were still walking on dry land, did not notice the current that tugged at Garad's boots too as he followed. "There's something out there."

Garad looked sharply away from his friend to closely study the churning dark surface. "I can't see anything."

Faramir kept walking, splashing into deeper water.

"We're going to get our boots full of water. Icy water," Garad said as much to keep the connection as anything. Now he was _really_ worried.

"Boromir calls to me."

Garad froze. _Oh, no. That's never good. _

Faramir continued dazedly, doggedly, forward, wading into thigh deep icy water. Garad moved quickly, grabbed at his arm, took a firm grip. How far did he intend going?

Something moved on the water's surface, floating rapidly toward them. It had not been there before, Garad was sure, it had only now appeared from around the curve of the river upstream. It was wood and metal, that much he could make out, and it was round. Faramir turned toward it, wading hard against the current.

Garad steadied him, and busy with that, watching their footing, saw only the flash of movement as Faramir's arm reached, took hold of the object. Garad caught a gleam of water dripping from an upraised bright metal shield boss that caught the faint early light. He knew its pattern all too well, having crafted it in miniature.

But now there were three arrows embedded in the wood about the center, black-fletched, thick shafted, enemy weapons. Uruk-hai arrows. Garad's stomach knotted and a sour taste filled his mouth. _ Boromir's shield._

"No," Faramir groaned, huddled over like someone who had taken a punch to the gut. His knuckles were white where he grasped the shield's handle.

Garad tried to speak, found his voice only on the second try. "It doesn't mean he's -- It's just the shield. He could still be alive.

Faramir shook his head, said, "He dies, I feel it. Boromir," he moaned, "Boromir!"

"No," Garad choked out, his chest tight, his legs gone to lead. He wanted to scream denial, tell him there was no proof, but he knew. Faramir knew. He felt warm wetness spill from his eyes, saw tears track down his friend's pale, dirty face. Then, suddenly, Faramir's expression turned from tearing grief to raging fury, his lips tight, his jaw hard. He held the shield steady with his left hand, and one by one, quickly, viciously snapped each arrow shaft and flung it back into the burgeoning, hungry river. Then he hauled the shield up, dripping water, and hugged it tight to his chest, both arms folded over it, protectively.

Garad wanted to weep. Broken, numb at the thought that Boromir would never return, he gathered himself to support Faramir back to shore, support him, somehow, through this new nightmare reality.

No Boromir -- Gondor's heart beat no more.

Garad shuddered, cold through to the bone. Still holding tight to Faramir's left arm, he felt the moment, felt something ripple through the Man, felt Faramir straighten, look keenly toward the middle of the river.

"He comes to me," Faramir said. "There."

Garad swallowed hard and followed Faramir's fixed gaze.

In the center of the river, right where the current was strongest, swirling like a silken banner tight in the breeze, something else moved. A mist, a fog, formed just above the water, lifting, taking on shape, human form. Garad stared, disbelieving, horrified and hoping all at once, knowing he saw it only because he was linked so closely to Faramir. And to Boromir. For it was he who appeared now, stepping clear of the shrouding mist.

Garad hissed a sharp breath. Boromir stood there, as real as life. He blinked, like a Man getting his vision into focus, then seeing them, his face lit with a broad smile, surprise, gladness and pride. It was unmistakably Boromir, indomitably cheerful. Garad expected him to ask, "Where's the ale?"

But there was blood at his mouth, and his clothing was covered in thick, black Orc blood. There was an ugly ragged gash high on an obviously broken left cheekbone. He reached out a hand toward them and Garad shivered.

"Faramir! Garad!" the ghost called.

"Go back!" Faramir snarled.

He stepped deeper into the river, and Garad felt the icy current creep up about his waist, pull at his cloak.

"Go back! Live!"

_Live?_ _ There was yet hope? _Garad turned a little, needing to read Faramir's expression, saw utter desperation.

'''Mir?"

Garad looked back in time to see Boromir's image waver as uncertain as the plea, his smile fading.

Abruptly, someone else broke clear of the mist, a dark hooded, bearded Man, a Ranger but by the look of him, of the north, not of Gondor. His hand latched onto Boromir's arm, tried to pull him back. There was a sudden flare of bright, white light, and a brilliantly robed tall figure eclipsed the others, making Garad squint. All he could see was a flaring of white robes, a long white beard, piercing eyes, white hair.

"Come Boromir," a resonant, commanding voice. "Return to us."

"Gandalf?" Faramir whispered.

The uncertainty, the questioning tone shook Garad.

"Go, Boromir!" Faramir begged brokenly. "Leave us! Live for us! Come home to us!"

Garad thought he saw a faint smile touch Boromir's bloodied lips. Then he, and his companions, were gone.

Faramir swayed, suddenly weak and grabbed at by the river that swirled about his waist. Garad tightened his grip on his arm. Then, hearing a sob break free of Faramir's control, he pulled the Man into a hard hug, held him a moment, the shield boss sharp between them.

With the apparitions gone, the real world was abruptly more vivid, more alive. Garad was acutely aware of every detail. He heard the whispered murmur and hiss of the river and the loud rattle of the wind in the bulrushes by the gravel bank. A bird called sweetly to the new day and the damp chill of fresh air bit at his exposed face and wet hands. The current tugged harder, enveloping him in bone-deep cold.

_Shock. Gotta get us both back to shore. Risk a camp fire._

Garad wrapped a heavy, dripping arm about Faramir's shoulders and turned him away from where he still stared at the place his brother had appeared to him.

"Come, my Captain," Garad urged soft, but firm, trying to sound steady. "Get out of the river before you freeze. We'll never get our boots dry again, you know. And you know how your brother feels about that."

Faramir followed, obeying with a docility that alarmed Garad.

"I saw him," Faramir said.

"I know," Garad answered, and feeling Faramir's strength wavering, his legs stumbling beneath him, hoped he could get him to dry land before he collapsed.

"The great idiot was grinning his where-is-the-ale-grin," Garad said, then cursed himself as he heard his own voice break. He bit down, added, "He loves his ale, that one, he'll come back just for that if nothing else. Right?"

"I think Gandalf was with him, and someone else," Faramir said.

Garad nodded. 'Boromir never gives up, you know that. And if Gandalf's with him, he can heal him."

Faramir smiled, then frowned. "I'm not sure it was him."

"Who else?" Garad said, concentrating on their footing as they reached the soft gravel of the shallows.

"He was dressed in white," Faramir said, suddenly chill and flat.

_Saruman_. Garad thought, then shook himself, refusing the image. "It was Gandalf. Only he would call Boromir back."

"I hope so," Faramir said, but sounded brighter, his body straightening.

"There is always hope," Garad quoted one of Boromir's favourite sayings, his teeth chattering. He was so bloody cold.

Faramir turned his head, looking direct into Garad's eyes. "There was blood on his mouth."

Garad held Faramir's desperate gaze, said truthfully, "And a g-great g-gash on his cheek. Someone hit him h-hard in the f-face, cut his lip."

"No," Faramir said and stepped wearily out of the river. "I felt the pain. In his chest. He was dying."

***


	10. Chapter 10 At The Turn of the Tide

Chapter Ten Turn of the Tide

"I am sorry I startled you, Legolas," Gandalf said with a slow, impish smile. Legolas inclined his head and returned the smile then embraced him warmly. "The Valar sent me back as the White Wizard, giving me his powers, the transition is what you saw."

"How?" Legolas breathed roughly through his tears.

"Of no matter. Boromir wanders and Aragorn attempts to bring him back. He fades. I must be quick."

He knelt beside Aragorn, lay one hand to the Ranger's shoulder and the other to Boromir's brow. "Come, now," he called softly. "Return to us. All will be well."

Power blossomed about his hands in twin haloes of gold light. Aragorn shook as if he had taken a sword thrust. Boromir drew a choking, rasping breath and a ripple of energy surged through his body from head to toe.

Sweat coated Aragorn's face, and, dazed he opened his eyes to squinted into Gandalf's knowing gaze. "Gandalf? It is not possible!"

"But, it is," Gandalf assured with a smile. "I am returned to you, the King, at the turn of the tide. You will need all of your champions." He frowned down at Boromir.

Open-mouthed, Aragorn gulped, blinked, could find no words.

"We are dead," a hoarse voice said weakly.

"Boromir!" Aragorn exclaimed, turning quickly back to the Man.

"No! We're not dead!" Merry, leaning close, told him.

Pippin added with a joyous, relieved smile, "We rescued you! You're not dead! We're not dead!"

"Gandalf is dead," Boromir said with unshakeable logic. "I see him. We are dead." He closed his eyes, smiling softly, "They didn't get Frodo and Sam."

"But we're not dead!" Pippin insisted, shaking the Man a little.

"Leave him," Gandalf said, pulling Pippin back. "He sleeps. He needs to sleep."

"His lungs? Aragorn asked."

"Healed."

"He only sleeps?"

Unable to believe, Aragorn lay his head to Boromir's chest and listened a moment. When next he looked up a broad grin washed some of the weariness from his eyes.

"He breathes! He will be live!" But he frowned again as he noticed the leg and facial wounds were still raw.

"I have given him what strength I might just now," Gandalf explained. "I have returned him to you. I have some growing into this new form to do. There will be others needing my aid. His lesser injuries will heal of themselves."

"New form? You are truly –" Aragorn stood to hug him and weep. "Thank you, Gandalf! He was dying and I could not hold him."

"Yes." Gandalf looked with fond sternness at the sleeping Man. "He has given too much of himself for too long." He glanced at Aragorn to add, "As were you. If you had continued, you too would have been lost to us."

"I would not leave him. Not again. I owe much to him."

"We all do," Pippin said.

"Frodo would not be alive but for his selflessness," Legolas put in.

Gimli snorted. "And his talent for swimming."

"Swimming?" Gandalf was curious, but shook himself back to the present. "Frodo and Sam I take it continue the quest?"  
"They do. There was no other option, the Ring would have killed us if we had gone with them. And, Sam, well –"

"I am glad Sam is with him," Gandalf said. Aragorn would have asked more, but Gandalf lifted a hand. "Not now, Aragorn. You are dropping with weariness, as are the Hobbits."

Boromir shifted in his sleep, as if seeking a more comfortable position and not finding it.

"Boromir has much healing to do yet, and this is no place for it."

Aragorn nodded. "There is no shelter. We have no food, little medicine.."

"Come, follow me," Gandalf said. "You will have all you need."

"Where?"

"Fangorn. I have a friend there who will aid us. A very, very old friend."  
"In Fangorn Forest?!" Gimli exclaimed in disbelief. "The trees don't like us."

Legolas cleared his throat and gave Gimli a look. "They don't like you and your axe," he corrected.

"Well," Gimli huffed. "Not that trees can, anyway."

"Fangorn is a place of mighty power and it is at last rousing." Gandalf bent closer to the wounded Man and said, "Here, Legolas, let me take him."

Very gently he lifted Boromir into his arms, then stood examining the remaining Fellowship. "None of you are in fit state for walking long distances. Fortunately, my friend can help there, too. He will not leave the forest. So, if you can but walk that small path he will aid us. My dear Merry, you are injured and so tired."

"I will carry him," Legolas said.

"You will not!" Merry declared. "I can make it."

"Lean on me," Pippin offered a shoulder.

Watching them set off, Aragorn shook his head. They were altered, were truly soldiers now.

"Treebeard will be pleased to meet Halflings again after such a long time," Gandalf said, carrying Boromir as easily as if he were a small child and tucking an edge of his cloak about him blotting its pure white with blood and mud.

"Treebeard? That's an odd name," Gimli said. "Who's he?"

* * *

Slowly surfacing from comfortable deep sleep, Boromir was aware of warmth and stillness, of easy pain-free breathing. Sheer luxury. He recalled a seeming eternity of continuous jarring motion, each jolt an agony, every breath an impossible victory. And he had been cold, so cold. It was bliss to simply lie here and be warm, on a soft bed, wrapped in peace and comfort. Something had awakened him, some sound that had made him very happy. All he could hear now was Gimli's irritating snoring. Why would that make him --?

_Gimli!_ They were free!

His eyes flew open and he saw an odd ceiling, something composed of interwoven fresh greenery, ferns and plants of some sort. He turned his head toward the snoring, then grinned despite his sore face as he saw Gimli.

The Dwarf was sprawled asleep on what appeared a bed of dried moss atop a rock shelf in a wall of the same material. On the rear wall in a small niche was a large stone bowl full of red-hot glowing rocks, a makeshift brazier radiating warmth. Boromir realised the ledge beneath him was also wonderfully warm under the moss mattress that supported his naked back. They were still in the wild, then. Aragorn had done well.

On the opposite rock ledge was what at first glance appeared to be a mound of white material, but on closer observation the mound was moving, someone asleep beneath it. A curly fair head appeared. Merry! He rolled over, pulling the -- was it a cloak? -- closer to himself and partially uncovering Pippin who lay slightly behind him.

Suddenly Boromir's breath caught, reminding him of his aching chest. Relief, pride, affection overwhelmed him. They had won! Pippin lay sleeping curled about Boromir's horn, his chin resting on its rim, its curved end about his waist, and his arm tucked over it.

Shadows and movement alerted him to someone entering the shelter, pushing aside a woven frond door. Aragorn. The Man's expression went from his usual preoccupied serious thoughtfulness to a broad radiant smile that made Boromir blink. He couldn't recall having ever seen Aragorn looking quite so happy.

"Boromir!" he declared. "You're awake!"

"I am," Boromir returned the smile, equally glad to see his friend.

Aragorn's smile faded as Gimli's snoring hit a particularly loud grating crescendo. He stepped further inside to shove the Dwarf with his boot. Gimli snuffled, rolled over, and there was blessed silence.

Boromir returned his attention happily to Pippin asleep with the horn. He watched, smiling, for long moments. Then he realized Aragorn was standing looking at him with quizzical bemusement.

"Faramir used to do that," Boromir explained, still smiling softly. "When he was very small."

"Ahh," Aragorn nodded, his bemusement becoming warm understanding.

"I thank you for returning the horn." Boromir coughed a little, his throat and mouth terribly dry. He nodded to the back of the room where his sword stood leaning against the wall. "Though I am far happier that you carried my sword for me."

"You are thirsty." Aragorn picked up a small stone bowl and scooped some water from a pool hidden by the lip of the rear wall ledge. "Here." He crouched down and held out the crystal clear water.

Boromir managed to prop himself up with assistance from Aragorn's free arm. He guided the bowl Aragorn held for him, swallowed and found the water remarkably refreshing. His aches and pains immediately faded.

"Better?" Aragorn asked.

"Much." Boromir inhaled a huge breath and let it out just to show he could. "I am most pleased to be able to do that." He frowned, suddenly puzzled. He patted his bare darkly bruised chest. "My ribs were broken and I was swallowing blood. How is it possible?"

Aragorn avoided his gaze, turning the bowl round and round in his hands. "This water, I am told, has potent healing properties."

Boromir shook his head a little. "You'll need to lie better than that when you're King."

Ignoring the comment, Aragorn said, "I need to check that leg wound. It was badly infected." He pulled the cloaks away and lifted the moss bandaging.

Boromir carefully rubbed a hand at his weary eyes and ignored the faint pain that flared in both face and leg at even so gentle a touch. "Will you please tell me why I am not dead?"

"Aragorn!" an imperious voice demanded from the doorway. "I must speak with you."

A white robed and bearded figure stepped into the room.

"Saruman," Boromir whispered hoarsely. He turned sharply away before another illusion could be cast upon him. Saruman had caught Gandalf's manner perfectly. But then he had had plenty of time to study him when he'd held him captive.

Only the White Wizard would have had the power to return Boromir from so close to death. Saruman, not knowing Gandalf was dead, had made himself look something like his old friend, expecting to deceive Boromir. All the blood drained from his face and he was suddenly chill with shock. Despairing, he tasted sickness, bile in his mouth. He was naked because they had searched for and not found the Ring. They had healed him only to find out where it was. None of this was real. Aragorn was not real, rather it was an Orc guard made to seem him. And if that was Gimli, where was Legolas? Saruman would never think an Elf and Dwarf would become inseparable. How much had Merry and Pippin inadvertently revealed, unaware that they were not with friends?

If they were to have any chance at all, Boromir must be quick. At least he might get the Hobbits clear. He lifted the bowl of drugged water and threw it at the Orc-guard's face, calling, "Merry! Pippin! Run!"

His arm was weak and he had missed his target, but the guard was distracted, wiping the poison from his chest. Awkwardly, Boromir lurched to his feet, only to have the guard grab at him.

"Don't touch me, Orc-bastard!" Boromir pushed at the creature, his muscles trembling and not having any real impact. His leg would not hold him and he collapsed, panting, back on to the edge of the pallet. Conveniently the guard was not wearing his sword, nor any other weapon he might snatch, and had blocked him from reaching his own sword at the rear of the cell.

"Illusion! Drugs!" Careful to keep his eyes lowered, he glared toward the White Wizard who would be his dead friend, "Master of Mimicry!"

"Damn it!"

Boromir blinked. It sounded so real, like a startlingly angry Aragorn. He could not stop himself from turning to watch the illusory Ranger confront the White Wizard. It seemed they were not prepared to give up their game so quickly.

"What did I tell you? Have a care! Let me explain before you come in here! Now he thinks we're the enemy!" Fuming, nostrils flared, fists clenched, the fake Aragorn saw blood trickling down Boromir's leg. "And his wound has re-opened!"

Boromir suddenly and with horror realised Merry and Pippin had not moved,. "What have you done to my friends!" He lifted a fist, helplessly. "More spells?"

Saruman let out a heavy sigh and spoke to the guard, ignoring Boromir's question " I thought he'd have the good sense to stay asleep and allow his body to heal. I spelled Merry and Pippin to sleep because they would not settle. It seems I should have kept Boromir down, too. I will wake them."

"Gimli's snoring woke Boromir."

"Oh. I forgot that."

"I do not snore," Gimli declared, stumbling to his feet and yawning.

Boromir blinked at him disbelievingly. Was he also an Orc playing friend to betray Boromir's conversation?

Gimli frowned at him, his heavily-browed eyes narrowing. "Aren't you cold, lad? You're not fit to be out of bed."

When Boromir said nothing, the would-be Dwarf stepped closer, studying him with artful worry. "You look sick.' He turned accusingly to the guard. "Aragorn, he looks terrible. Why did you let him get out of bed? Look at him!" His voice rose in agitation. "He's bleeding! Again!"

"He is?" Merry said. Getting to his feet, the Hobbit craned to see about Gimli. "He is!" He turned and glared at Aragorn. "You weren't supposed to let him get up!""

"Boromir?" Pippin asked, coming around Gimli's other side. "You're shaking. What's wrong?"

"It's not real, Pippin. We are captive still."

Pippin frowned. "What's not real?"

"All of it, all of them." He waved a hand at the imposters. "They hope we might say something we would not under other circumstance. Be careful. Saruman would have us believe he is Gandalf." He sneered toward the white-robed figure, "He made one mistake, Gandalf is dead!"

"Oh!" Pippin said, and Gimli and Merry groaned in unison. "That again."

All three spun about and eyed the wizard in utter exasperation and irritation. "What? Did you just walk in here?"

"I forgot," he said, sounding like a sheepish Gandalf. "I should have remembered, the Son of Denethor long ago learned he cannot always trust his eyes. " He paused, then added sadly, "Or his heart." He took a cautious step toward Boromir and said softly, "I am sorry, my boy."

No one but Gandalf ever called Boromir 'my boy'. Saruman could not know that.

"Gandalf?" Boromir dared flick a glance at the wizard, saw compassion in the blue eyes. And pain. "But … you died."

"So did Beren."

"I saw you die! You fell with the Balrog!" He added in a whisper. "I couldn't reach you."

"Yes. You saved Frodo as he tried to reach me and would also have fallen." He smiled sadly. "As for the Balrog, we fought a long while, a very long while. And I killed him."

The room circled slowly in Boromir's sight. Only Gandalf could know about him holding Frodo back. "So, you didn't die?"

"Oh, I did die. But I have been sent back. Only just in the nick of time for you."

"Lie down," Aragorn said, giving Boromir a wary regard before he dared bend over him. "Before you fall down. And, if you don't think I'm an Orc bastard any more?" He cocked an eyebrow. "Let me tend that leg."

Too weak and confused to do anything else, Boromir obeyed. "Where's your sword?"

"Outside," Aragorn said, distracted and frowning in a manner that further reassured Boromir as to his reality. No one else could do The Worried Healer expression the way Aragorn did. "I was sharpening the blade and didn't want to wake you."

"Oh."

Merry stepped close and pinched Boromir, gently, saying, "See? We're real." Then he gave him a scolding shake of the head and screwed up his face as he dared look at the raw and bleeding wound. "Look what you've done to yourself now."

Pippin sat at his side and squeezed his hand. "I think you need some hot food. Don't feel bad, even Legolas thought Gandalf was Saruman at first."

"Legolas!" Boromir said, hissing as Aragorn's very gentle hands nonetheless hurt a little as he resettled and tightened the leg bandage. "He's here, then? He's all right?"

"Yes," Pippin said. "He's off, umm, talking to the trees."

Merry leaned in to whisper mock conspiratorially, "And this time the trees are talking back."

"Don't tell him that!" Pippin rebuked. "He's already got enough to deal with."

"I have just thought how I can prove who I am," Gandalf said, leaning over Boromir's pallet with familiar mischief bright in his blue eyes. "There are many things I know that Saruman could not, personal details. Do you recall The Fellowship's second night out from Rivendell, Boromir?"

Boromir shook his head, his eyes closed. Rivendell seemed a lifetime and another world away.

"Aragorn had a, shall we say, unfortunate day, and you drew me aside to express your rather candid opinions of both he and the quest."

"Oh." Boromir's face burned. "Yes."

"So," Gandalf said, playfully, "Do you still think Aragorn is a –"

"No!" Boromir lifted a hand and his eyes flew open to give Gandalf – and this certainly was Gandalf – a pleading look. "Much has happened since then."

"Indeed it has," Gandalf nodded, his expression losing its merriment.

"Where are we?"

"Fangorn Forest," Gimli told him and settled back to put his empty pipe to his lips.

"Fangorn!" Boromir exclaimed, then coughed. "Why – would -- ?"

"We didn't know it when we dragged you in here," Pippin said. "You know, after we rescued you."

Weakly, Boromir ruffled Pippin's already unruly curls and gave Merry a look. "I do thank you, both."

"You should thank the Rohirrim, too," Gimli said.

"The Riders? Theodred is here?" Eagerly, Boromir craned forward, trying to see beyond the open doorway, joy flooding him at the thought his good friend might be close by. But he caught nothing more than a glimpse of dense green forest bathed in sunbeams.

"Sadly, no." Gandalf bent down to do his own inspection of Aragorn's work with the wounded leg. "Theodred cannot be here. Aragorn, as soon as you are done, we must be on our way to Edoras with all haste."

Aragorn nodded, and Boromir, pushing aside his disappointment, asked, "You ride with Eomer and his eored? That is how we escaped?"

"No." Gandalf shook his head.

"We did it all by ourselves," Pippin said. "All the Riders did was nearly trample us in the dark. Well, I suppose they did kill a lot of Orcs as well."

"Always helpful," Gandalf said dryly. He too settled back to pull a pipe from inside his new white robes.

Watching the Wizard and Gimli indulging in their favourite pastimes, albeit without pipe-weed, was all too familiar. It was true, they were safe, had somehow survived. Boromir let his head drop to the pillow. Exhaustion edged his vision with black spots as the last rush of battle-readiness washed from his veins.

"They missed us in the dark?" Boromir asked.

Studying him anxiously, Aragorn nodded. "You must rest. First athelas, then some broth."

Boromir nodded thanks and closed his eyes. He thought to ask, "Gandalf, why do you wear white?"

"Because I have been given Saruman's old job."

"He's the White Wizard now," Merry said proudly, Pippin finishing, "Which is just as well for you, because he needed to have the power to –"

"To what?" Boromir asked when, uncharacteristically, Pippin shut up before saying more. He opened his eyes to find Aragorn holding a small cup from which wafted steam and the familiar scent of athelas. Boromir drank dutifully, knowing the awful tasting tea would clear his head and give him some strength. Boromir eyed the Hobbits over the rim of the cup but Pippin only flushed guiltily as Merry elbowed him in the ribs.

"You wondered why you are not dead," Aragorn answered for them.

"Oh!" Boromir looked across to Gandalf, wonder and gratitude flooding him along with a vivid memory. "You called me back."

"I did. But I could do so only with your ardent desire to return."

"Faramir, I remember -- he was mad at me. I didn't know why –"

"Yes," Gandalf said slowly. "He made the difference, shooing you away like that."

Boromir lifted his free hand to gingerly examine a sore spot on his jaw. "He will worry." Then, something else occurred to him and he eyed Gandalf sharply. "Please tell me it came to him as a dream vision? He wasn't really waist deep in the Anduin in winter and risking the current at the ford…"

"He was. But, Garad was with him."

Boromir exhaled relief. "Good. He'll have fished him out."

Aragorn said, "I did not see them."

"You could not," Gandalf said mildly, "for you were not as fully present."

"You were there?" Boromir asked, meeting Aragorn's eyes as he gave back the cup. "How?"

Aragorn turned away, pretending to be busy with his herbal concoctions.

Gimli cleared his throat in the ensuing silence and said gruffly, "Some sort of Healer thing, Legolas called it. He was worried, said it would be too much for –"

"Faramir pushed you back? " Aragorn interrupted, suddenly all attention but neatly changing the subject. "I felt someone helping us, but could not see who it was." He held out the salve he'd collected on his fingers and indicated Boromir should tilt his head so it could be applied to the sore spot.

"Aragorn," Boromir said, intently, waiting until the Man was finished with his work and could meet his eyes. "My thanks. You risked yourself." He paused and added, "The Hands of the King bring healing. It's true then." He snorted ruefully. "I'm sorry I called you an Orc bastard." He gave a slow teasing smile. "You'll forgive my lapse in protocol, Your Majesty."

Gimli barked a laugh.

Aragorn dipped his head, a wry smile curving his lips. "You have called me more interesting things in the past."

Boromir cast him a quick, guilty glance.

"You have a General's voice, it carries well," Aragorn said, his smile becoming a grin.

Merry said brightly, "Of course, we did have to translate a bit for Sam."

Pippin continued, "A bit sheltered, our Samwise."

"Didn't know what a wanker was, or even –

"Enough!" Boromir begged.

"Aragorn did, though," Pippin finished with a happy, cheeky grin.

"We all heard you," Gimli said. He waved his pipe airily, "Sounded perfectly reasonable to me at the time."

Aragorn just shook his head, amused. He collected a bowl of steaming broth and steadied it in Boromir's grasp. "Eat. You are past weary."

Boromir had to agree as the room continued doing its slow drunken dance about him. So much so that Aragorn took control of the bowl, pressing it gently to Boromir's torn mouth. Boromir took a careful swallow but found, as usual, it was not too hot to drink quickly. It was surprisingly tasty with some kind of tangy herbal taste that settled his stomach.

He had finished the broth and Aragorn was helping him settle back to rest when he realised with a groan, "They'll think I'm dead!"

"Faramir also saw me," Gandalf said quickly. "He will know there is yet hope."

"Even so, I must return to him as soon as possible." Boromir looked up at Aragorn. "You go to Edoras?"

"So it would seem," Aragorn turned to Gandalf. "You say we must travel there with all speed?"

"Yes. Theoden needs our help most urgently."

"They are under siege?" Boromir ignored an irritated scowl from Aragorn to prop himself up. The Hobbits immediately bolstered him, shoving the rolled up white cloak behind his back. Boromir only now understood it must belong to Gandalf.

"Not of the usual sort," Gandalf said, chewing on his pipe thoughtfully.

Boromir grunted exasperation. "I'm not up to riddles. Please speak plainly."

"I fear Saruman has taken possession of Theoden's mind."

Aragorn straightened to stare at the wizard. Boromir swore under his breath. "First my father, and now this."

"Denethor?" Gandalf leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "Saruman affects him?"

Boromir sighed heavily, then admitted, "The enemy say they have him in thrall. That they took me prisoner only to be a prize for Saruman, a counter they said, to the Eye having .." He flinched. "Having my father."

"But it's not true, is it, Boromir?" Pippin said. "They were just trying to get you mad."

"I wish that were so, my friend. But no, Faramir long suspected our father. And I have come to see that any information I relay to Denethor is soon in enemy hands." He looked down at his own bruised hands, then rubbed at the rope marks on his wrists. "I had hoped it was another." He paused and confessed into the silence, "My father cannot be trusted."

The silence grew more profound. Aragorn squeezed his shoulder and sadi quietly, "But My Steward can be."

Boromir nodded, more grateful than he could express for Aragorn's reassuring touch and the trust that went with it but unable to speak for the tightness in his throat.

Gandalf sighed heavily. "You and your brother were not alone in your suspicions, Boromir. I should have acted sooner."

Boromir looked up. "You go to Theoden's aid, you can free him from the enemy spell?"

"So I hope."

"And my father?"

Gandalf closed his eyes as one in pain. "The Eye is another matter entirely to Saruman. And your father a different man to Theoden King."

"Meaning?"

"Theoden was taken against his will by a Wizard who no longer has his full powers. Theoden will be eager to return when I call to him. Denethor –"

"Will not. "

"Long has he opposed my counsel."

Boromir nodded. "Go. If you can help Theoden I will be most grateful. I saw him when I passed through Edoras months ago. He seems unnaturally infirm and aged. Theodred expressed his concern. I promised I would send our best healers. And I did send such an order." He groaned and scrubbed a hand at his tired eyes. "Or did I send a messenger – yet another one – to his death?"

Gandalf said nothing. Pippin and Merry regarded him with dark, sorrowful and much older eyes. The look of seasoned soldiers.

Boromir sighed. "Theodred will be your ally. He loves his father, and Theoden --" he paused, short of breath. "-- loves him greatly in return."

"Theodred cannot help," Gandalf said heavily.

Boromir's chin came up sharply. There was a roaring in his ears, fear at his guts. "Something --? He's not dead?"

Gandalf regarded him sympathetically. "He lies gravely wounded. Close to death. I hope to help him as I helped you."

Boromir's throat was too tight for him to say more than, "He is my Shield Brother."

"Gimli," Aragorn asked. "Would you find Legolas, tell him –"

"He is coming," Gandalf said. "I have Called him. We depart immediately."

"Where the Elf goes, I go too." Gimli stood and put away his pipe. "Can't have him besting my battle count." He bent and picked up his helm, tugged it on over his head, and settled it with a sharp pat. Then he gathered his weapons and began checking them.

"Merry, Pippin, find my clothes, bring my sword." Boromir shoved himself up only to sway dizzily and need to fight to keep the broth down. "Aragorn, give me a shoulder."

Instead, Aragorn took a step back, leaned against the door frame, folded his arms, and regarded Boromir with a raised eyebrow. It was so like Faramir that it would have made Boromir smile in any other circumstance. Here, it only made his homesickness and his impatience all the more profound.

Merry and Pippin had not moved. Giving up on help, Boromir stood to go search for his clothes. His bad leg gave way and everything went black. Then, there were helping hands everywhere and he was back on the bed, panting, spots dancing before his eyes. When he could see again he scowled down at his wounded leg, avoiding whatever justifiable annoyance he might find in Aragorn's eyes.

"I will rest a day then follow," he said unhappily, mustering his dignity.

"A day won't do it, laddie," Gimli said offhandedly, busy with his preparations. Boromir sighed heavily and the Dwarf glanced across at him, "Anymore than one leg will."

Boromir sighed a second time, knowing he was right. His eyes went to the horn, lying atop the opposite stone ledge. "Aragorn, I would have you carry my token to my liege men, for when I was last there, too much attention was being paid to one who crawls as the creature for which he was named – Grima Wormtongue." He reached out, couldn't quite touch it, and asked, "Merry, could you, please?"

"Oh, right." Merry carefully picked up the horn and made to give it to Boromir.

"It's for Aragorn," Boromir said.

The Ranger, busy with strapping his sword belt about his hips, looked up in surprise. "The horn? Surely, not. That is only for the Steward's Son."

"And so they will know you as my Mouth," Boromir said. "Take it, please. It may avail you more than we can yet know."

Aragorn raised an eyebrow and regarded him thoughtfully. "Very well, then. I accept it with thanks." He added with a smile, "But it is only a loan, be sure you remember that, My Steward."

Boromir returned the smile. "Yes, My King."


	11. Chapter 11

**Reminder and Invitation to the real GONDORIAN Victory Party in Lansing Michigan Memorial Day weekend!**

I will be attending Mediawest Convention in Lansing Michigan May 20 - 27. I am inviting you all to a VICTORY of GONDOR and Friends Party Saturday Night. FOllow the signs and the White Tree Banners in the halls! Boromir shield pendants will be available for sale, along with White Tree pendants etc. Also please place your orders for the new books, Warriors of Gondor 5 and Brothers of Gondor 2 which are being printed for the convention. There will also be art by various professionals. Memberships for the convention are still available, I believe, though I have nothing to do with running this conveniton, which also features many other television and movie and book themes.

Thats all I can think of for now! Oh, there will be free copies of the new books given to the best typed or emailed reviews of any of last year's stories, ie Rapid Peril, Dithen, or any story (ies) from Warriors of Gondor 4. There will also be consolation prizes among them the Boromir shield!

Anyone who would like to nominate any of last year's books and stories for a Fan Q Award please do so before deadline of April 15. Instructions at www DOT mediawestcon DOT org

Hoping to meet many of you at the party! For further information or to order books or pendants and art please contact me at the following email You will need to add in the proper at signs and dots etc. carolyn DOT golledge AT bigpond DOT com

THANK YOU  
Carolyn

Garad watched as Ciran and Damrod carefully set the two small blindfolded prisoners down on the rock floor. As soon as the blindfolds were removed, the two blinked and looked around, taking in the cavern with its roaring waterfall back wall. They may be small, but that made them nonetheless dangerous. Though Garad had to admit he didn't think they had the look of hardened soldiers, spies was another matter. He had never figured what spies were supposed to look like. Someone capable of fighting, or treachery, of killing, surely. These two, well, he was glad it was Faramir's job to uncover what they were about.

His Captain strode into the common area, pushing aside the hanging horse rug that separated it from Faramir's tiny private room. Given his emotional state since The Incident at the river – again, Garad shied away from thinking about it too closely -- he was all the more glad that they had insisted Faramir have the necessary luxury of that privacy. He had no idea how Faramir was dealing with what he'd seen, only that he must and he would. He didn't really what to know what it felt like to be in his boots right now.

Faramir took up his usual position with his back to the waterfall, and frowned down at the prisoners.

"Who are you?" he demanded, his face stern. "And why do you come to my lands?"

"We are Halflings of the Shire and our business is our own," the slighter of the two answered. His chin lifted and blue eyes flashed with remarkable defiance and courage given he was being towered over by the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers. _And a Captain who really wants someone to thump right now._

"You are in my lands," Faramir repeated in a deathly chill. "And you will answer me." He took a step closer and Garad was impressed when neither Halfling moved, nor even flinched. "If you are spies your --."

"Spies! Now wait just one minute! " The stout one folded his arms over his chest and glared.

"If you are not spies, why are you here? None travels lightly in these lands."

There was a sharp intake of breath from the other, and he cried, "Sam! Look!" Relief and joy rang in the words, making Garad turn to see what or who had attracted their attention.

"It's his shield!" He looked up at Faramir, a smile transforming his features. "Where is he?" He and the other looked about, Skinny adding, "Where's Boromir?" His tone was suddenly peremptory as is he had taken command and was being robbed of his due.

Faramir stared from them to his brother's battered shield, stunned to hear that name on their lips.

Garad said, "You know that shield?"

Faramir came round them, and Garad's breath caught. Faramir looked like the face of the tapestry of Elendil come to life. "Everyone in Mordor knows that shield," he said icily. "Who are you?"

"I am Frodo and this is Sam," The slighter introduced, almost as if it were self –evident, frowning at Faramir's continuing hostility. "He hasn't mentioned us? He'd be looking for us, he knew we came this way."

"And where are Merry and Pippin?" Sam added, "Are they sleeping or eating?" Frodo and Sam exchanged glances, their elated expressions fading to worry. "They're all right, aren't they?" Sam said.

"Tell us," Frodo demanded. "For the last we saw of them they battled the enemy." He stepped closer to the shield, peering at it in the gloom, then gasping in shock. "Arrow barbs! Sam look at this!"

Sam was equally dismayed. "But he was so sick! How could he --?"

"What proof do you have? Captain Boromir made no mention of you. Could it be that you were with the enemy as they attacked?"

"What? No!" Sam cried.

"You lie," Frodo said. "Boromir is not here. We need to know what has happened. Our cousins were with him."

"More spies?" Faramir sneered. "Like your other companion, the one you have conveniently forgotten to mention? My men watch the creature as it swims in the Forbidden Pool. None of good heart would travel with such a one." Faramir turned away and said, almost to himself, " What deceit does my father practice now? Is this a test?"

"We are not spies!" Frodo said, sounding desperate. "Gollum was our prisoner. We needed a guide when we left Boromir and our other companions."

Faramir snorted. "Your story grows more elaborate."

"Tell us where you came from and who travelled with you," Garad interrupted. "Where did you last see Boromir?"

"By the lake, the , the –"Frodo hunted for the name. "The Seat of Seeing."

"Amon Hen?" Garad said. "Go on. When was this?"

"Some days ago now. We started out as nine. But now – we lost one in Moria, the others were warriors, pledged to our protection – a Man, a Ranger of Arnor, a Dwarf, an Elf, and Boromir."

"Garad!" Faramir snapped, taking Garad's arm. "It is all lies! Do not listen to them!"

"Faramir?" Garad frowned. They took a few steps toward the back of the cavern.

"They are spies," Faramir snarled. "I feel it."

."I do not," Garad said. "I believe them. It all makes sense –"

"I tell you, they lie!" Faramir insisted.

"Listen to yourself!" Garad said. "Next you'll be telling me you want me to execute them in your father's name! It's scares me when you do such a perfect imitation of Denethor!"

Faramir shook himself like a man waking. "It's not Denethor I feel. It's – " he looked at Garad in surprise. "It's Boromir."

Garad stared, his mouth dropped, then he began to grin. "He's alive!"

Faramir smiled slowly. "Yes. But wherever he is, it's bad. Shocked." He lifted his head and met Garad's gaze. "He has been betrayed by someone he trusted."

"Could it be Denethor? Has he come home and discovered the new orders your father has issued?"

Faramir immediately shook his head. "No, I would know if he was home. It can only be those with whom he travels." He turned his head, his eyes narrowed as he studied the prisoners. "If they truly are his companions they will know more."

Garad also turned back watching Frodo and Sam who were standing by the shield. Frodo dared touch it, his fingertips going to the embedded barbs. There were tears in his eyes.

Sam said, "Them Orcs, they had that Archer."

Frodo nodded, white faced. "But Boromir had Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli."

"No, he didn't," Sam said. "Not then."

Frodo slapped at the shield. The tears dropped from his pale face as he lifted his head angrily. "He was supposed to stay down! He was too sick to fight! Merry and Pippin were supposed to make sure of that, not worry about us!"

"You needed them more," Sam said sadly. "We couldn't have got away without them, and Boromir wouldn't let his Little Ones stand and fight alone."

Garad looked sharply back at Faramir and saw him react to the familiar endearment from his childhood. These days, Boromir only used it when drunk, raving or terrified for his brother. Faramir blinked away the moisture that filmed his eyes, grimaced, and turned his back, his arms folded.

"Look at that! It's him!"

It was Sam who had spoken, his gaze fixed on Faramir. Garad looked back at Faramir who stood in sharp profile his features back lit by the lantern on the barrel behind him.

"Faramir!" Frodo said, dawning hope in his voice.

"It is! It is!" Sam's tone grew louder in his excitement. "He'll help us! Boromir always said you can rely on him."

Garad felt Faramir move. He was watching and listening now , too. Sam saw they were being watched, but was unfazed. He grinned in relief and nudged Frodo as he pointed at Garad's boots. "See?"

"Garad!" Frodo exclaimed. "It has to be!"

"Boromir's mother hens!" Sam congratulated, giving his friend a quick hug. "We're safe!"

Frodo was not so confident. "I don't know, Sam. Something's wrong, look at the shield." He caught Faramir's gaze and asked pleadingly, "Please, tell us, where did you find it? We have to know."

Faramir let out a heavy breath and began to move to their side. Half way there, he staggered suddenly. Garad steadied him, "What?"

Faramir shook his head dizzily, turned awkwardly to stare disbelieving joy. "He's all right!" he exclaimed, relief lighting his face and taking away all the haggard worry. And the disturbing resemblance to Denethor. "Boromir! He's safe! He's safe!" His eyes lost focus as he tried to concentrate, "I don't' know," he said wonderingly, "he's relieved, they were friends after all."

Garad shook his arm in celebration. "Then, he'll be all right?"

Some of Faramir's joy faded. "I don't know. I don't think he knows where he is. And he's weak, terribly weak."

"Strider will look after him," Sam said, overhearing. "He'll have found him. " He looked to Frodo to add, "I know Strider would."

Frodo nodded. "I hope so, Sam."

"Who is Strider?" Garad asked.

"A Ranger from Arnor."

"A Ranger," Garad said. "I think I saw a Ranger with Boromir."

"It was, " Faramir said.

"And if Gandalf's there, too…"

"Gandalf is dead," Frodo said, his voice heavy and breaking.

Garad braced Faramir, feeling the shudder of shock that made the Man's knees go weak. "Gandalf? Dead? It cannot be."

Frodo held Faramir's gaze. "He was lost to us, in Moria. He stood, holding the bridge against a Balrog. Then he fell. Boromir and I tried to reach him, but –" Frodo gasped, bit down hard, suddenly on the verge of breaking down completely. He turned away, touched the shield as if for reassurance. His fingers traced a dent on the outer rim, and he smiled softly, said, "That's from Moria too, remember Sam?"

"I was sure you were both gonners. The rock wall missed you by a whisker."

"Didn't miss Boromir. I'll never forget feeling him stagger as it hit him, but he didn't' fall, he just kept hold of me, kept me safe. " Frodo's voice broke on that last.

"He always kept us safe."

"Gandalf." Faramir groaned and rubbed at his face. "We are surely lost without his guidance."

"We've made it this far," Sam said firmly. "And we can make it the rest of the way. We have to."

"If I saw him with Boromir," Faramir said. "It was from the realms of the dead."

Garad heaved a sigh. "Maybe. But he still called him back. You know he's alive now."

Again, Faramir gave that slow heartwarming smile. "I do. He is."

Frodo cast a curious eye over the two Men watching him and said, "So, you're the mother hens."

"Excuse us?"

"That's what Boromir called you, when he thought you were with him."

Faramir frowned. "He thought we were there?"

"He took a mighty crack to the head when Aragorn and Legolas were getting him out of the river."

"Is that when he lost the shield?" Garad asked. "We found it floating in the river, just yesterday."

"That shield saved Frodo's life," Sam said.

"Not the shield, Sam. Boromir. It was his idea to use it as a boat for me."

"A boat?" Garad shook his head. "Sounds like a Boromir idea to me."

"Oh, you don't know the half of it," Sam said.

"You really are his friends," Faramir said. "Forgive me. I have been… most worried for my brother."

"You don't know where he is, either? When last we saw him, he was so sick. Strider said it was pneumonia."

"My brother never falls ill. What?"

"He held me up in the river for most of the day, and he was wounded. He was so cold. But it was more than that. An evil will." Frodo's hand went to his chest, reaching for something hidden beneath his shirt and vest. Then, guiltily, quickly, he dropped his hand, his fist clenched, his jaw set with the effort.

"What have you got there?" Garad knew it was not a weapon. They had already been searched.

Faramir had gone very still at his side, the stillness that preceded violent attack. Garad frowned at him, feeling a terrible tension building like a summer storm about them.

"If I wanted it," Faramir said in a disembodied, unsettling tone, "I would take it."

Garad had the unnerving sensation that he needed his sword in his hand. He looked at Faramir in puzzlement.

Faramir shook himself like a dog shedding water. He turned away, his eyes dragging away from Frodo. "Keep it hidden." He leaned toward Garad and added in a whisper, "Later. We must keep this news from Denethor at all cost."

"It might be too late. The Men from Osgiliath saw them, too."

"I'd forgotten." Faramir ran a hand through his hair, looking and sounding so much like Boromir it made Garad smile.

There was a muffled snort from Sam and Garad turned to see his face reddening as he realised he had openly shown amusement. Garad gave him a reassuring conspiratorial wink and Sam broke into an abashed gin.

"I have also forgotten my manners to leave my brother's friends tired and hungry," Faramir said. "Please do me the honour of sharing supper with us." He regarded them with gentleness and sympathy, more like the Faramir Garad knew. "I remain concerned for Boromir's safety and would be most grateful for all you might tell me of the last you saw of him."

"We would be happy to help you," Frodo said, "But our answers may not make your burden any the lighter. Nor ours."

"Come, sit down, and we will eat while we talk."

"Damrod," Garad called and instructed his fellow ranger to organise a hot meal.

"Garad," Faramir said. "I need a word with you in private." He gave Frodo a look and Garad saw the Hobbit's hand again feel for something beneath his shirt then quickly force the hand back down again.

"What is it he carries?" Garad asked as soon as they were alone inside Faramir's tiny room.

"I saw it, and him, in a dream," Faramir said quietly, his gaze fixed on his boots, "the dream that Boromir shared, the dream that took him away from us."

Garad inhaled sharply, feeling as if someone had just dumped ice down the back of his shirt. "Isildur's Bane," he whispered.

Faramir nodded. "Denethor must never know it was here."

Garad gave a half laugh. "No shit." He collapsed heavily to sit on Faramir's bed. "Fuck me, the One Ring right here under our noses. How long has it been since it disappeared?"

"About the same time as anyone last saw Isildur alive," Faramir said, giving a dryly amused raise of an eyebrow for Garad's reaction.

Garad looked slowly up at him. "What do we do?"

Faramir sighed heavily and turned away, toward the rug doorway. "I'm not sure. But I know this much, Frodo must continue to carry it. He's right, it would kill or corrupt any other." He swung back sharply and Garad saw a grim desperation in his blue eyes. "Ignore it, fight it, if it speaks to you."

"Wh-what?"

"It has already entered my mind. It can sound most persuasive." Faramir snorted bitterly. "Once it figures where best to attack you. In my case, it promised the safe return of my brother."

Garad simply stared, his mouth gone dry. After a moment he turned and frowned wonderingly toward the outer room. "How has he – how can he?"

"I do not know. Gandalf chose him, and Sam. That gives me hope." He slapped Garad on the shoulder and said with a grin, "Now, if you are finished trying to break my bed, we should go and ask them exactly what they intend for the Ring of Power."

"You think?" Garad said sarcastically.

He tried not to flinch guiltily as the bed creaked ominously as he got to his feet. He had broken it twice before. Once when he was wounded and had been carried here by Faramir. The other time when he and Faramir had assisted a very weary, injured and drunk Boromir to his rest and Garad had lost his grip on the Man.

"And –" Faramir said more heavily. "I must know all the details of their last sight of Boromir. Though I think Frodo is right, it will not be easy to hear."

It was a rough and ready sort of dinner for such special guests, and Garad felt Faramir's discomfit as barrels were set up with planks over them for tables and old crates for chairs. But with extra wood on the hearth fire, and more lanterns lit, reflecting tiny rainbows from the waterfall some distance in the background, the place didn't look too bad. It was certainly warmer. Faramir offered apologies nonetheless.

"I fear we do not do you justice with either our lodgings, or our food, but –" he shrugged. "It is a long way from here to Minas Tirith."

"Please," Frodo said, meeting Faramir's weary eyes with earnest understanding. "It means much to just to be out of the wind, out from under the night sky, with other people about us again. Company and a roaring fire are wonderful."

Sam nodded emphatic agreement. "We've had naught hot to eat or drink in days. All this, " he waved an arm about the cavern, "is like a feast."

"Well, then," Faramir said, "I think some good wine might be even better. I have some back here, and something else I think you will be pleased to see."

Faramir left, ducking under yet another horse rug curtain into the storage room. Garad caught Frodo again giving the shield a long considering look, saw sorrow heavily etched in the lines of his tired face.

Frodo shook his head, and glancing up to notice Garad's regard, he smiled a little and said, "It should not surprise me, knowing Boromir. Especially after the way he protected me while wounded all that time in the river. But –" He sighed. "He was so terribly sick, I cannot understand how he found the strength to fight them."

"Boromir is like that," Garad said softly. "He and his brother both. You have to watch them closely, they never think of themselves. I've seen them do the impossible many a time, bleeding and broken, but still fighting." He snorted ruefully as the memories flooded back. "Many a time. More than once, we didn't know they were hurt until after, so well do they conceal it." He met his small companions' gaze to flash a grin and complain, "Then, all at once, they collapse like unstrung puppets and make a mess of your clothing bleeding all over you and like as not swearing a fit if they can still talk. Most incriminating, and I'm the one who gets yelled at by the other brother. Or worse, by Liel."

"Who's Liel?" Sam asked, smiling over the story.

"Boromir never said --?" Garad shook his head in self admonition. "No, of course, he would not have spoken of her."

"Her?" Sam said, eagerly.

"Here it is," Faramir said, returning with his arms laden. "Boromir left this the last time he was here. It should have aged nicely by now. "

He placed the wine bottle on the table and set down four ornate pewter drinking cups. Those, Garad knew, had been a birthday gift.

"And Ciran has brought the other items I wanted." He nodded thanks to the young ranger, who immediately stood back, not wanting to intrude.

"My cooking pot, and my pans, and… the rope!" Sam said with delight. "I thought I'd lost them forever when, well, when –"

"We dragged you away so ill-manneredly?" Garad said with a wry grin.

Sam nodded, busy with checking his possessions. Frodo watched him fondly, then said, :"Thank you, Faramir, Garad. We left our cooking fire when we heard the battle."

Sam lifted his head. "There was an oliphaunt! I thought it all a fancy from tales. " His bright expression faded and he said with a sigh to Frodo, "I don't suppose they'll believe me any more than we did Bilbo"

"Probably not," Frodo said.

"But I do thank you for bringin' these along," Sam climbed back up to the box-seat. He nodded at Frodo and said solemnly to the Rangers, "Can't hardly take care of Mr Frodo in the wilds with no cooking gear, now can I?"

"I suppose not." Faramir exchanged a look with Garad. Both knew Rangers expected to make do with much less, and did.

The idea of carrying the equivalent of a kitchen to Mordor both amused and horrified them. How innocent and inexperienced were these two, and why had they been chosen for so vital a mission? But perhaps the answer lay in that very innocence, especially Sam. Garad was still completely rattled by Faramir's matter or fact telling that he had heard the Ring's voice trying to tempt him.

Garad couldn't help flicking a furtive glance toward Frodo's shirt. He flinched and shivered. He was sure he'd heard something, a cold, chilling laugh. Garad tried to tell himself he had imagined it, but Frodo lifted his head and met his eyes with a piercing sad knowing. Garad's heart constricted with intense sympathy and burning admiration for so great a courage. No wonder Boromir had fought for his small friends, even while near dead himself. It was all you could do, protect them with all you had.

"You say my brother was stricken with pneumonia?" Faramir asked. "Forgive me, but I am most anxious to hear all you might tell me of him."

"There is nothing to forgive. I would feel the same," Frodo said. "Yes." He looked down at his hands before he could bring himself to say it. "We had carried him from the boats, unconscious. It had been raining and dismal cold all the day before. We had had him under warm shelter and well cared for where we had been before and he was recovering. But he insisted we must keep moving, that the enemy were close behind, and he argued with Aragorn when he would have stopped to care for him."

Garad shook his head. "Sounds familiar."

"He was unconscious?" Faramir asked.

"Yes," Frodo admitted sadly.

"I put the kettle on for athelas tea," Sam said. "That helps. But he was – well, he was bad. Burning fit to shake and his breathing hurt him. You could see it."

"Strider, Aragorn, he's the healer, was very worried after he listened to his chest. That's when he told us --." Again Frodo met Faramir's eyes, so sad, so solemn that it made Garad want to weep for him. And for Boromir. "Told us it was pneumonia."

"Then why was he alone when the attack came?"

"Merry and Pippin were with him, " Sam said, somewhat indignantly.

"Forgive me," Faramir lifted a hand in apology. "I meant to ask, that is, I gather your cousins were not trained warriors."

"Boromir taught them well," Sam said. "But – The Enemy are so much larger."

"Aragorn should have still been with him," Frodo explained. " I told him he must stay to care for him, while Legolas and Gimli took me away from him. Took the Ring away from him. But somehow he must have known we had come under attack at the top of the hill. He came charging up there and said he had left our cousins, Merry and Pippin with orders to stay down, to keep Boromir in hiding, using the cloaks. We all had them. Like these we wear. See? Gifts from the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien?"

Garad's jaw dropped and he glanced quickly at Faramir, saw the same astonishment, overlaid with trying to imagine Boromir in such a setting.

Frodo pulled his cloak over his head and gave it to Faramir who examined it with curiosity and with a Ranger's trained eye for its usefulness.

"It's better if you see 'em like this," Sam said, and he got up, stood by the wall next to Boromir's shield.

He wrapped the cloak about both himself and it, and they disappeared. Garad squinted in disbelief. He could just make out where Sam now stood, but only because he knew where to look. He and Faramir exchanged impressed expressions, and envious, too. Their own cloaks were dyed to match the wooded terrain, for the most part successfully, but the colours did not shift and change to any circumstance.

"Such clever materials would indeed hide anyone should they wish to remain hidden," Faramir said. "I thank you for the demonstration, Sam." He gave back the cloak to Frodo and Sam returned to the table. "They should not have been discovered if they kept still. What went wrong?"

"We had to get away from them, some kind of new Orc, much bigger and faster, and they run in daylight." Frodo touched a hand to his chest, to the spot Garad now knew hid the One Ring.

"The Uruk-hai. We know of them," Garad said and felt cold to the marrow of his bones at the thought of It so close to returning to the enemy.

"But we almost ran right into another group, creeping along shore toward our boats," Frodo continued. "Merry and Pippin saw what was happening and sprang up to lead them away from us."

"These are the two Boromir called his Little Ones?" Faramir asked.

"Yes, " Frodo said, then added hastily. "It was not a mocking name. It was – affectionate. He greatly loves them, and they him. For all their mischief and teasing."

"I understand," Faramir said, smiling softly. "It was his childhood name for me."

"Oh, I see!" Frodo and Sam's eyes rounded and they glanced the one to the other, understanding how great a compliment had been paid their cousins.

"He would never leave them undefended," Garad put in, "no matter he could barely stand."

"Aragorn and the others might have won their battle and come down to help them in time," Sam said hopefully.

"Perhaps." Frodo sounded doubtful. "But there were so many enemy."

There was a profound, gloomy silence as all left unspoken the most likely conclusion – Boromir and his two small friends had been captured.

"Here," Faramir poured wine into their over-sized goblets. He looked up as Ciran arrived, Darmrod at his side, carrying platters of roast venison and the few potatoes they had remaining.

"Oh!" Sam's eyes widened in delight. "'Taters! I can scarce believe it! Oh, this is wonderful!"

Frodo laughed, and Garad regarded him sharply, for the sound and the merriment of it altered him completely. It revealed the person he must have been before taking on the task of carrying the Ring, and it tore at Garad's heart to see the difference.

"Thank you, " he said. "You have made Sam most happy. We Hobbits do love our potatoes, but we have seen none since Rivendell… Imladris."

"That is where you first met Boromir? At the Great Council?" Faramir asked, nodding thanks to his fellow Rangers.

"Yes. There was much discussion as to what should be done with –" He did not name It, but, reminded, touched his hand to It, and all the light left his eyes, the weariness returning to line his young face.

Sam snorted. "They were arguing hammer and tongs, especially Boromir and Gandalf. Until you said you would take it."

"They've done that before!" Garad said, dryly.

"Your offer pleased Gandalf?" Faramir asked, not noticing as Garad piled more food on his plate, including several potatoes.

Frodo sighed. "I was not sure at the time, but later he told me it was the only way, for it must be destroyed and I made the lesser target."

"Frodo had already carried it all the way from the Shire," Sam said with fond pride. He took a huge bite of potato and meat, then sighed blissfully through his chewing.

"From the Shire?" Faramir said.

Garad was pleased when he began eating albeit distractedly. Maybe he'd get some strength into him, after all. Garad helped himself to some of the food, too, but knowing the other Rangers were eating only venison, he left the potatoes for Faramir and their guests.

"My uncle had come by it, many years before, not knowing what it was. He left it to me, and Gandalf discovered its true nature," Frodo explained.

"I see," Faramir nodded. "And you started out from Imladris as nine?"

Frodo swallowed a bite and nodded. "Nine walkers to counter the nine Nazgul, Elrond said."

"You've seen the Nazgul?" Garad asked sharply.

"One of 'em wounded Frodo, " Sam said gravely.

Faramir put down his knife and fork. "When?!"

"Just before we reached Rivendell. Aragorn helped save him, but I think …" Sam looked away. "Well, I don't want to think too hard. It was awful, and it was as well Master Elrond was waitin' for us."

Garad and Faramir traded grim looks. These two were more experienced than they had ever imagined.

"And your road took you from… Rivendell, where, through the Gap of Rohan and on to – no, wait you spoke of Moria? Why would you choose so dangerous a path when --" Faramir stopped as Frodo flinched in real pain. "Frodo? Are you all right?"

"It wasn't your fault!" Sam said hotly, gripping Frodo's arm. "Even Mister Boromir told you so!"

"It's all right, Sam," Frodo said sadly. "I know, and it was kind of Boromir to say so."

"Well,' Sam said stubbornly. "He was right about which way we should have gone. We should have listened to him."

Garad was not quite able to believe that the choice of roads had been given to Frodo. Boromir would have loved that.

"My brother advised taking the Gap of Rohan." Faramir said, and it was not a question.

"He did. Gandalf insisted it was too dangerous."

"Because of Saruman?" Garad asked, hoping as much as anything to get more good food into Faramir unnoticed in the ongoing conversation. He'd barely eaten a thing since the river.

"Yes. And he was right," Frodo sighed. "Saruman almost brought the mountain down on top of us."

"The mountain?" Garad frowned.

"Caradhras."

Garad stared, his food forgotten halfway to his mouth. "But surely you did not try Caradhras in the depths of winter?"

Frodo looked down at his plate, avoiding Garad's astonishment.

"Would have froze solid, I reckon," Sam said. "If not for Boromir insisting we carried wood and hay for poor Bill."

"Bill?"

"Our pony," Sam said, suddenly despondent. "I do worry about him."

"We could not take him into Moria, and had to let him go," Frodo explained. It was his turn to offer comfort to his friend. He squeezed Sam's arm and said, "Aragorn and Boromir both thought he would get home again safely."

Sam sighed. "He just might, too. He's a smart one.""

"Please, eat," Faramir urged. "I will ask no more questions lest you eat your meal cold."

Sam nodded thanks, and returned eagerly to his meat and 'taters, but Frodo seemed to eat only to please him. Garad suspected Faramir ate only to put the Halflings at their ease, and perhaps to placate him.

Finally, Sam pushed back his clean plate and sighed contentment. "Well, Mr Frodo, " he said, "That's the best we've et since home!"

"I am glad," Faramir said with a sincere smile. "For I would do all I may to ease your journey. You have been hard-tested."

Both blushed, discomfited by the praise, and Faramir prompted, "You took to the boats only after leaving Lothlorien."

"We did," Frodo said.

"It was a right treat," Sam said. "Not havin' t' walk after so long."

"Then we came to the rapids," Frodo said heavily.

"Sarn Gebir?" Garad asked.

"I think that's what they called it, yes."

"You had to porter the boats around it?" Faramir asked.

Frodo nodded. "Boromir and Aragorn carried them. And that's when the enemy attacked."

"I see." Faramir rubbed absently at his upper right arm. "Boromir fell into the river when he was wounded?"

"How did you know --?" Frodo stared at him.

Sam pointed at Faramir rubbing his arm. "That's the exact spot the arrow hit him!"

Garad smiled thinly and told them, "My Captain often feels such things." He poked Faramir with his elbow and said, "See? I told you it wasn't that tumble you took that day. Your arm was barely bruised."

"You fell?" Frodo asked. "When?"

"Four, five days ago." Garad said. Then seeing the narrowing of Frodo's eyes, added, "Mid-morning."

Frodo let out a breath and shook his head. "I think it's the same time Boromir was wounded! But he didn't fall, he slid down the bank to help me."

"He had his shield held out to cover Frodo, " Sam said. "That's how the arrow got him. He would have been all right if he'd kept the shield for himself."

Garad heaved a weary breath. "Always the same story." He paused and muttered with a look at Faramir, "Doesn't matter which brother. Same damm story.

Faramir smiled but it died into a wince, and he rubbed at his forehead.

Garad frowned. _What now? Boromir? The Ring? Something else? Or all of them together?_

"Then Frodo went into the river," Sam said, and he eyed the hidden Ring darkly. "It was no accident. That evil thing made sure of it."

Garad and Faramir met each other's eyes with grim understanding. The Ring had somehow known Boromir had been sent to bring it to his father and it had contrived to make it as easy as possible for him to take it.

"How long were you both stranded in the river?" Garad asked, turning back to Frodo.

"From late morning near to nightfall."

Garad hissed through his teeth. The Anduin ran with ice-melt at this time of year. And Boromir had been wounded.…

"I can't swim," Frodo said. "Boromir knew."

"He did," Sam agreed, looking up at Faramir and Garad. "He didn't have to go in after him, he could 'ave let go. I don't know how he hung on after the arrow hit him. He just wouldn't let go of Frodo's cloak." Sam shook his head. "I hope some day I can thank him and buy him all the beer he can drink!"

Garad snorted amusement. "Best save your pennies, then, Master Sam, you'll need at least half a barrel! Right, Faramir?"

He looked to his Captain with a grin, glad of the lighter moment, then frowned. Faramir was starting to look ill and he was scrubbing at his forehead again as if in pain.

"Are you all right?"

"What?" Faramir blinked, then squinted against the lantern light. "I'm fine. Just tired." He looked to his guests to add, "But none so tired as our two friends here, I'll wager. Yet, if you can manage it, I must have all this story."

Frodo and Sam proceeded to tell it, surprising even Garad with Boromir's resourcefulness. There had been so little for him to work with, but he had used everything he had, including his body as a platform on which to hold Frodo clear of the water atop his shoulders.

"Surely, even Boromir must have weakened, hurt like that," Garad said, as much to hurry the story on as anything. He was worried by the greenish tinge to Faramir's face, the usual precursor to the onset of one of his murderous headaches. It wasn't hard to figure out what was causing it.

"He did. It was so cold," Frodo said. "It made him sleep more than once."

"And that's when the Ring went for his throat," Faramir said coldly.

Frodo stroked his fingertips over his neck, and nodded. When his hand came down, Garad caught a glimpse of an old bruise, as if the chain hidden there had imprinted into his skin.

"I don't know what It made him see," Frodo said slowly. "But it was like he was having a bad dream. He called your name, Faramir, he thought you were being hurt."

"I think I know what he saw," Faramir said slowly. "I had not had that dream in many, many years, but I had it that night." He rubbed harder at his forehead, then dropped his hand quickly as he caught Garad's concern.

"Which dream?" Garad demanded.

"Not a dream, really," Faramir said sourly. "A memory. My father nearly drowning me."

"Your father!" Sam said in shock.

Faramir regarded him sadly. "He feels I caused my mother's death. Or so he said as he pushed me under the water."

Appalled, both Hobbits stared open-mouthed at the brutally matter-of-fact revelation. Garad knew how they felt, and hid his clenched fist under the table away from Faramir's eyes. He would not upset his Captain further by threatening Denethor again, however indirectly.

"Boromir jumped in and saved me," Faramir said, a fond smile easing his white face at the memory. "He was only nine."

"Says he was ten," Garad put in, trying to break their guests' shock. "And already could swim like a fish."

"You knew him then, too?" Frodo asked.

Garad nodded. "So you think that's what he was seeing?" he asked so Faramir wouldn't have to.

"I don't know," Frodo said, looking toward the shield again. "The Ring drove him into a rage. He pulled me down from his shoulders and –"

He touched his throat again, and suddenly Garad realised who had put that mark there. It was a wonder his neck wasn't broken. But then Boromir had a will of iron, if anyone could pull his punch while under such compulsion, it would be he.

"I called to him," Frodo continued, "And something woke him from the spell of his rage." He looked up at Faramir. "I think it was you. He begged my forgiveness," Frodo said, his tone awed, a smile coming to his lips. Then he shook his head. "Can you imagine it? He had saved my life so many times before that day, and now he was freezing to death to keep me from drowning when he could have swum ashore and left me. And he asked my forgiveness!" Tears stood in Frodo's blue eyes.

"He could not have borne it if he had hurt you," Faramir murmured.

"I know. He said something -- well, I thought it was something, about … about being like his father."

The self-condemnation didn't come as a surprise. Faramir only nodded, his eyes dark with grief. "It is his deepest fear, that he might become our father."

Garad scowled. "Yeah, right. Denethor who takes responsibility for nothing, and Boromir who takes responsibility for everything!"

"He does," Frodo agreed. "He did in the river. Though I argued with him about it."

Garad snorted. "Good luck on that one. We've all been there, lost that one, before."

"So," Faramir concluded. "My brother's choice was death or the madness of the Ring. He would never allow the risk to you…." Faramir grimaced and held a hand to his eyes. "Yet he could not leave you, for you would drown. Sauron's device is as cruel in its cunning as he himself."

"Yes," Frodo said coldly. He studied Faramir's obvious pain with narrowed eyes. "It had planned well. But Boromir had its measure. He always did."

"What did he do?" Garad asked. "What _could_ he do?"

"He pulled the arrow from his arm," Frodo said, biting his lip and paling at the memory.

"What!" Garad cried.

"It would leave him unconscious," Faramir said, "Or dead. And Frodo safe from the Ring's madness."

"Boromir never gives up, he wouldn't just –" Garad said.

"Exactly," Frodo interrupted. " He planned to win. He _did_ win. He needed that arrow. He used it as a brace to hold himself up, even while unconscious. But first, he told me how to use the shield to make sure I was rescued." Frodo looked up, angry, proud, affectionate. A familiar combination for anyone who called one of the brothers friend. "Though he made out the plan was for us both."

"That day," Garad said. "Faramir could not use his arm, then he shivered and shook no matter how we tried to warm him. Then last, he came down with a terrible headache, a real killer." Garad gave Faramir a significant look and his Captain lowered his hand from his face again.

"The Ring tried one last time, " Frodo said. " Aragorn and Legolas came out to us and tied off ropes to rescue us. Boromir was unconscious. The arrow brace snapped at the critical moment. He slipped from Aragorn's grasp and hit his head on the rock, and slid under the water." Frodo could say no more, too choked for words.

"The cursed evil thing almost drowned him," Sam said. "He wasn't breathin' when they got him ashore. And that would have been the end of it, if Mr Frodo hadn't got the better of Sauron's Ring." He looked proudly to his friend, and patted his arm. "That was a sight. I can tell you! I've never seen anything that made me happier! I wish you _had_ thrown the cursed thing back into the river!"

"I wanted to, Sam," Frodo admitted. "I wanted to…."

"But it let Boromir go," Sam finished. "He started breathing and we got him into the cave and looked after him."

It took a moment for Garad to find his voice. "No wonder he came down with pneumonia."

"Yes," Frodo said. "So you see why we must continue our quest alone. We have learned to our cost we must keep it away from those we love. " He sighed heavily and gave Sam a fond smile." I tried to keep Sam from coming but –"

"I'm not leaving you!"

"I know, Sam, and I am grateful. I do not think I could withstand its voice without you."

"They are free!" Faramir snapped. "You do not deceive me!"

"What?" Sam asked, looking at him in consternation.

Garad got to his feet. "He's seeing something. It comes on like this and brings a mighty headache with it."

"The Ring," Frodo said, voice low. "It shows you Boromir captive, tortured by the Orcs as he tries to defend Merry and Pippin."

Garad got as far as to put a hand on Faramir's shoulder, then he stopped, appalled as Faramir nodded. He began massaging the cramped muscles in his Captain's neck and shoulders.

"The pain is because .." Frodo began.

"He resists," Garad nodded understanding.

"We must go," Frodo said and stood. "I won't stand by and see it attack his brother as it did Boromir."

Faramir gritted his teeth and squinting at them. "You leave. It wins."

Frodo paused, Sam watching him helplessly.

"It's all right. I see It's workings. Give me a moment."

"He's a Healer," Garad explained. "I've seen him block his pain before."

Sam looked from Frodo to Garad. "Strider does that."

Garad carefully hauled Faramir up and drew an arm over his shoulder. "Come on, My Captain. You'll do better if you're down. Damrod?" he called. The older Man, he noted, was already on his feet and heading for the hearth-fire.

"I'm on it. Ginger tea. Sweet. Coming up right up."

Garad felt Faramir's shoulders hunch with the effort of keeping his stomach in place. "You keep those potatoes down, dammit!"

Faramir snorted, proving Garad had succeeded with his distraction. "Bring them," Faramir managed to say.

_Right, we're going for family secrets now,_ Garad thought grimly. _Hell, just letting them go will get Denethor killing us._

"Frodo, Sam," Garad said. "This way, please."

He checked that the Hobbits were following as he pulled aside the horse rug curtain. The roar of the waterfall and the way the firelight flickered on it always made things worse for Faramir. He felt his friend's breath of relief as they stepped into the dimmer, quieter room. Carefully, he sat Faramir down on the bed, glad once again that he and his stubborn fellow Rangers had somehow succeeded in smuggling the thing into the cavern. It was a four poster bed with carved headboard and luxurious goose-feather mattress and pillows plus thick, soft, hand-stitched quilt. The heavy bed hangings were also a blessing, keeping back the chill of the damp stone walls and blocking the light.

"Leave them," Faramir said when Garad would have lowered them. He wanted to be able to see his brother's companions as they spoke with him.

"It was a gift from us all," Garad explained, amused as he caught the Hobbits staring at the incongruity of a luxurious bed in a cavern room. "His expression was close to yours when he first saw it. Damm difficult, I can tell you, smuggling it in here and putting it together without him knowing."

"I'm can imagine," Frodo said. "Impressive work."

"Sit down." Garad smiled and waved at the single chair and footlocker. He moved to the lantern on the barrel table and turned it down a little.

Faramir propped himself up against pillows and bed-board.

"Dammit!" Garad snapped. "You could at least rest."

Faramir lifted two fingers at him. "I am."

"The pain?"

"Easing."

"It's true." Frodo let out a relieved sigh. "I can feel it."

"Good." Garad stood by Faramir and looked from him to the Hobbits. There was a moment's silence. "What now?"

"Where do you take it?" Faramir asked. "What did Gandalf advise?"

"Destroy it. Mount Doom."

'Mordor? Alone?"

Frodo nodded sadly. "It is the only way."

"But…" Garad spluttered. "You can't. You're taking it straight to Sauron." They said nothing. "You will need Rangers. We know the way, at least."

"Faramir told It no, just like his brother," Frodo reminded him, and tilted his head to the bed.

Garad sighed and lifted a hand to rub at his eyes. He didn't need to look to see the suffering on Faramir's face. "There must be something we can do."

"Boromir said it could not be done, not even with ten thousand Men."

"My brother is the greatest General of the Age," Faramir said with a faint smile. "But this task requires stealth."

Garad commented wryly, "Not his strong point."

"Like a pony with its head stuck in a pail," Sam said.

Garad choked off his laugh, keeping it to a snort for the sake of Faramir's head.

Sam reddened. "Not meanin' any disrespect. Mister Boromir is real quiet on watch, spooked me more than once."

"We expect him to be noisy, he cultivates that impression," Faramir said. "It gives him the edge of surprise." He grinned, the pain pushed back a little. "A sneaky bastard, my big brother."

"In the waking hours, maybe," Garad said dryly.

Sam and Frodo exchanged looks, grinning at each other.

"He makes a terrible racket sleeping," Sam agreed.

"You think that's bad," Garad said mischievously, "You should hear him during other ahh, bedroom activities. You don't want to be on sentry duty under his window, trust me."

Faramir pinched the bridge of his nose. "Hazard duty if ever there was one."

"What?" Sam asked, not following.

Frodo gave a strangled chuckled.

Faramir gave Garad a look. "You started this. You explain."

"Sam, you know," Frodo prompted, making an hour glass shape in the air.

"Oh!" With wide-eyed horror, Sam asked Faramir, "That's not what you meant when you said he sounds like an Orc in heat, right?"

Garad roared laughter.

Faramir said, "He told you I said that?" He could not keep the pleasure from his tone. Frodo nodded, also smiling. "That's when he's snoring. Otherwise…." He shrugged.

"Let's put it this way," Garad told Sam, "When the Horn of Gondor gets blown, we all know it."

Again, Sam took a second to catch the innuendo then his face burned red anew, but he laughed. Faramir was still grinning. Talking about and remembering his brother had done its usual healing magic.

Silence descended once more, bringing with it the grim fact they sort to avoid – these two faced going to Mordor alone.

"If we cannot accompany you," Faramir said at last. "We can at least supply you as best we might. And give you a map if not a guide." He exchanged glances with Garad who nodded, message received.

"We have our Men watching the creature who was travelling with you," he said.

"Gollum," Frodo nodded.

"Gollum!" Garad exclaimed. He had heard the tale of the thing originally having had the Ring, losing it, then being held in Mirkwood, and escaping. Faramir, he noted, had reacted with dismay but not surprise. They had only confirmed what he had guessed, then.

"You must not allow him to set your path," Faramir said. "He seeks only to have the Ring for himself once more."

"I know."

"Of course you would. I am sorry," Faramir said. "You have come a long way south, you miss your mark if you aim for the Black Gates."

"We've been there already," Sam said, giving Frodo a solemn regard.

"We could not get in," Frodo explained. "Though we saw an army entering. They were dressed the same as those you attacked this morning."

Garad nodded. "Easterlings. We know they march to reinforce Mordor. "If you do not go to the Black Gates, then where?"  
Frodo glanced at the thin horse rug doorway that was all that separated them from the Men in the outer room.

"They will not be listening," Faramir said. "I trust each Man completely. We speak in private for their protection. Denethor would see us dead on a charge of high treason."

"Why? He's on our side, isn't he?" Sam exclaimed indignantly. "And he's your father!" His expression darkened, no doubt as he recalled Faramir's telling of the near drowning.

"He has issued a new law," Garad said bitterly. "We must take prisoner any strangers who enter our lands, and we must deliver them to him."

"But," Frodo looked from he to Faramir, fear warring with desperate hope. "He will not know we've been here?"

"Such is our hope," Faramir lied. "There is only one other road into Mordor that is known to such as Gollum. "

"He calls it The Stairs," Frodo said.

"The slimy little murdering mongrel!" Garad snarled.

"You cannot go that way," Faramir said. "None return alive."

"What other road might we take?" Frodo said sadly. "All are equally dangerous, and we face death as soon as we enter Sauron's lands in any case."

Faramir sighed and cast a defeated glance at Garad.

"It is true there are none that are any less deadly," Garad said. He paced about the room in frustration. "Didn't the high and mighty Lord Elrond of Imladris have any better plan?"

"No. He said only that one of us must do this thing."

Garad swore foully under his breath but they must have heard him.

Frodo smiled. "That's what Boromir said, in private."

"He told the Council about Mordor, good and proper," Sam said, his eyes lighting at the memory. "The very air you breathe is a poisonous fume."

Faramir and Garad blinked in surprise, but not of the words, rather the close imitation of Boromir's voice and tone.

"That's very good," Garad complimented. Then he sighed. "Boromir is right about the air."

"It's not much better in Minas Tirith, these days," Faramir added bitterly. "Come, if we cannot take this burden from you, we can at least see you rested. Beds will be made up for you, and hot water for baths if you would like."

"A hot bath!" Sam said with the same longing they'd heard from him for potatoes.

Frodo smiled at his friend. "You ease my burden already," he told them. "We will set out again in the morning, then, if you're certain you will be all right?" He eyed Faramir.

"It has given up, and I have its measure now, should it try again," Faramir said. "But we must be careful it does not try for another of my Men. There is a small room, a cell of sorts, truth be told, where we keep supplies. It can be made comfortable and warm and no one will disturb you."

"Where is Gollum?" Frodo asked.

"He swims in the pool at the foot of the falls."

"He's probably after fish," Sam said, pulling a disgusted face. "Eats 'em raw."

"Leave him be, if you would," Frodo said. "He will soon catch us up again when we go."

Faramir's heavy sigh echoed Garad's.

"We will not abandon hope," Frodo said. "Boromir, Merry and Pippin did not, and you say your heart tells you they are now free and with friends."

"Yes, I am certain of it," Faramir nodded.

"Then we will look to the day when we may join them and celebrate victory at last."

"When we do," Garad said, "it will be due to the courage of Frodo and Samwise of the Shire."

"Samwise, The Brave," Frodo corrected. Grinning, he poked a bare foot into his friend's leg. Sam was again blushing.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12 In the Silence of the Night

(This Chapter written by ET. Thanks, Eleanor Tremayne!)

Silently, Garad slid out of his hammock, reluctant to leave the warmth provided by his blankets and the iron box filled with coals sitting beneath it. He couldn't sleep. The presence of the One Ring was like sharp rocks on hard ground, making it impossible to find comfort.

The guards were awake and alert, the storeroom where Sam and Frodo were quartered secure and undisturbed. The Thing should be happy with the current circumstances, with only two Halfings between It and the return to its Master. The only hope Garad had for the future, was that Sauron's anger would be so great he would sweep Gondor and its peoples into death in one swift rage. He knew it was a forlorn hope, like all their hopes of late, but it still gave him some comfort in the darkness of his private fears.

He was not the only one awake this night. Damrod sat by the hearth, fingers moving a shuttle in and out of a broken net, mending it for the next trespasser it would snare. The hands of the Fisherman's son moved like they had their own eyes, for Damrod's attention was on the curtained doorway of their Captain's chamber.

Ciran crouched beside the older Ranger, looking up at Garad as he kept the thin, tough strand of rope free of knotting tangles. A moment later, Damrod's gaze had turned to him as well. Around him, the swing of hammocks whispered as his fellows turned to him in expectation.

They were aware of the danger, could feel It, even if they did not know Its name. They knew It hunted their Captain, and looked to Garad to do what they could not. For one, they would not presume upon the prerogative of the members of Faramir's Square, and for the second and perhaps stronger reason, they did not wish to wake him, if he had managed to find sleep through the pain of one of his headaches. However silent they were, Garad was the only one who could approach Faramir without waking him, besides his brother, of course. No matter how much of a racket Boromir made, Faramir somehow managed to sleep through it, though normally a gnat's fart would have him on his feet with a sword in his hand.

His luck held again, for Faramir did not stir when he crept into the private room created by the stubborn affection of his Men. It was not usually the way of Rangers to humor the conceit of separating officers from Men, but as Faramir was offered little respect elsewhere, they had gone to extremes to extend it to him here, where they and they alone held sway.

Garad had to stand and wait for his eyes to adjust from seeing darkness to dimness, the light of the hearth fire so much brighter than that thrown by the candle lantern on the stone shelf above Faramir's bed, its gleam blunted by the thinnest screens of horn. It gave just enough light to allow a waking Man not to be taken unawares, but not enough that the thick bed hangings could not block it out when necessary, like tonight.

He had to risk pulling back the thick, midnight blue wool to see Faramir. His Captain's back was to him, the younger Man's legs bent, his head and shoulders supported and held stationary by pillows filled with buckwheat and lavender. He'd buttressed them with rolls of rough fabric to ensure nothing would move. A blanket rode low on his arm, and Garad had to steel himself against the urge to pull it higher onto Faramir's shoulder. He wouldn't risk waking him.

Carefully, he pulled the edge of the hanging he held over of its counterpart, reaching up to gently tug the fabric loops from which they hung along the polished wooden rod, making sure there was no gap in them for the entire length of the tall frame. No metal rings here to rattle or shine where such were not wanted. The canopy was held aloft by independent poles, to let the cool air in and keep unwanted light and occasional bat or bug out.

The frame was Damrod's design, the temporary answer to the as yet unsolved dilemma of how to safely smuggle the great carved poles that went with the heavy head and foot boards of the bed into Henneth Annun without damaging them, or giving their hideout away in the process.

Tall saplings and woven willow wands, peeled and polished and carried in piece by piece stood in for the missing frame. The thick wool fabric had been spun and woven in plain sight on the upright beam looms in their "great hall" from wool expertly died to match the silk hangings in Faramir's rooms at Osgiliath. They'd made up some lie that the fabric was to trade with freebooters for supplies Minas Tirith was no longer able to supply Ithilien, as it struggled with the shortages the loss of Osgiliath's bridge and harbors had caused.

His fingers lingered on the drape, stroking back and forth over the small bumps scattered across it in the patterns of the constellations of the night skies. It had been Damrod's idea to tie the knots of white silk thread through the thick wool, imitating the silver spangles and shimmering crystals embroidered on the original hangings. It had been Garad's job to smuggle the canopy out of Ithilien, to include the ones who did not wear Ranger green in the gift. Many a fair hand had bent to the task, stitching a loop of thread and tying it tightly before finishing it with a kiss.

Boromir had not kissed his knots, instead pulling the tiny things together with a ferocity of concentration that had moved Garad as much as it had amused him. Orome had been his choice to record, the great hunter with his horn who summoned forth summer from the winter desolation. It had been a good choice, as the constellation held seven stars, and they were each to tie seven stars. Damrod had insisted on seven, to remind the Valar and any guardian spirits who might still care that a Prince of Numenor slumbered beneath these man-made heavens.

Garad didn't know if Eärendil or Elendil or even Anárion gave a damn about Gondor, but many a Man now dead guarded their Captain in the watches of the night, willingly bound by their seven knots. He could feel them, on nights like this, though whether their presence was a trick of his memory or something else he chose not to pursue. He would know when he joined their number, and that was likely to be soon enough.

A laugh whispered in his mind, cruel and mocking. It reminded him of Denethor, and that was where it made its mistake.

'Fuck you!' he told the Ring, letting his anger grow, feeling the ghosts around him rally to his side. 'We broke your master once, with you on his hand! We know your tricks now, you little bastard. You didn't win last time, and you fucking well won't win now!"

He felt it try to push back against him, to punish Faramir for the insolence Garad had offered it, but for once, it was over-matched and retreated, seething.

Suddenly unsteady, Garad fought to catch his breath and mopped cold sweat from his brow. Quickly, quietly, he checked on Faramir. Finding him undisturbed, he left him to the watch of his silent guardians, returning to the brightness of the hearth and the company of the living.

His place was waiting by the fire beside Damrod, across from Ciran, but he didn't sit, standing there instead, his hands on his hips as he stared at the flames.

"Everything all right?" Ciran asked quietly.

Garad nodded even as he struggled to balance out his swinging emotions.

'Bravado,' he chided himself. He had an uncomfortable feeling he had been a child taunting a giant, but when faced with a giant, what other recourse did a child have, except to beg? Why do that, when you would wind up just as dead or just as used? Perhaps bravado was the last grace they had....

Abruptly, he turned and headed for his hammock. Ducking under its headstall where it was anchored with bolts into the solid rock of the cavern roof, he dropped to his knees in front of the first of a series of shelves carved deep into the rock wall. Careful of the still hot warming box, he reached in for his supply bag and his tool chest with its sturdy handle of leather-wrapped wrought iron.

Without him having to ask, Damrod shifted to make more room for him closer to the fire, and Ciran added fuel and poked it up to brightness. Slinging the supplies bag down on his right, he put the heavy chest on the ground to his left, next to Damrod.

"Cir, I need some of your spirits. The strongest you've got."

Damrod's eyebrows rose, but he said nothing as the youngest of their Square moved off at speed to answer the request. Letting deed be his explanation, Garad left the hearth. He did not need to see to follow the contours of the floor to where Boromir's shield sat waiting for the return of its Master.

Damrod's eyebrows nearly disappeared into the height of his hairline when he returned carrying the heavy round-shield, but still he kept his silence.

"She's dried out now," Garad said, pleased to see it was true. Boromir was the only Man he knew who referred to his shield as a "she", but who was he to argue? Any thought of teasing him for it had fled before Faramir's frown, and died completely the first time Garad had seen the Woman Boromir called wife wearing high against her throat the perfect silver copy of the shield he had helped her husband make.

"Here," Ciran said, his blue eyes alive with curiosity as he looked from the shield to Garad.

"These arrowheads, they're probably poisoned," he explained. Nodding, Ciran handed over the distilled spirits far too lethal to drink in their pure state.

With a grunt to indicate his understanding and approval, Darmod set aside his shuttle and the man-trap. Turning to the shelves of their hearth supplies, he found a plain, unglazed clay bowl. It was big enough for the arrow heads but small enough to break and bury where any trace of the poison that might survive Ciran's brew could harm none.

"How are you going to fix the divots?" Damrod asked, opening the lid of the chest and pulling its staired shelves out and up, ready to play the Smith's assistant.

"The wood is strong. We will mix hardwood sawdust with fletching glue, paint it, waterproof it, and then...." He tapped a careful finger next to the metal triangle of the arrowhead sunk into the shield. "We'll use these to cover the patch, and strengthen the join of the planking."

"Trophies," Ciran grinned. "He'll like that."

"If you shape them a little," Damrod said, considering the shield while scratching his chin. "You could lay them so...."

Brushing grey ash from the edge of hearth with a quick hand, the oldest of their four drew conjoined triangles into a star.

"So I was thinking. Have you counted them?"

They had, of course. Over and over again, bringing themselves to hope and despair and back to hope again, but now these two parts of his soul counted to different purpose. Damrod saw it first, his superstitious heart cheered beyond all measure. A few moments later, Ciran, too understood, lighting up the room with his gasp of delight.

"There's just enough for seven stars!" he cried.

"Do you think it will please him?" Garad asked, thinking it would please Frodo and Sam, if he could have the thing done before the Halflings had to leave them.

"It will please Faramir," Damrod replied, and that answered yes in itself.

"Right, best get started, then. Cir, I'll need a bar of beeswax, and do a whip-round for any silver to spare. We won't need much."

"Silver?" Damrod asked.

"Her companion must match her," Garad reminded them. "We can't give Boromir this one, without making the smaller to go with it."

"Point," Ciran agreed, unhooking the silver hoop from his ear and tossing it to Garad before going to pretend to wake up their comrades. Damrod had already set out the small jeweler's crucible to melt the silver, and was now unpacking the fine carving tools he would need to make a replica of the shield in the wax.

"Work is the best way to shorten a long night," Damrod told him. "I'll get some food started."

"What are you doing?"

Though thick with sleep, Faramir's voice was strong, and Garad grinned at his Captain.

"How's your head?"

"Still attached," Faramir answered through a yawn, pulling the hem of the blanket he had wrapped around him above his hips as he took his place at the hearth between Garad and Ciran. "What the hell are you up to?"

Even as he repeated his question, he reached out to the shield sitting in the center of their circled Square, gently testing the dried patches of the fill for the divots. The faintest of smiles touched his face, like the thinnest sliver of a new moon on a dark horizon.

"Needs sanding," he said, through another yawn.

Garad caught the hand reaching toward the supplies bag. "Food first."

The look Faramir sent his way was sharp enough to use as a cutting edge, but no words followed it. Was it possible his Captain was actually hungry?

Damrod had a mug of tea in Faramir's hand a moment later, matching Faramir's frown with one of his own, daring the younger man to complain about the waste of sugar that had gone into its sweetening. Wonder of wonders, Faramir didn't, closing his eyes in happiness with his first sip.

"Our guests?" he asked after the second, equally savored mouthful.

"Still sleeping well," Ciran answered. "Just as well, they won't be journeying today. It's coming down like horse-piss out there, and the lightening is bad enough we've pulled the perimeter guards in."

Faramir nodded. "This storm is not of our Enemy," he murmured, his eyes growing unfocused and distant. Ciran ever so casually elbowed their Captain in his closest arm, making Faramir come back into the moment to save his syrup from sloshing out of its cup.

"It explains what woke me, at least," Faramir grumbled, switching his mug to his other hand before elbowing Ciran back. "I thought Garad had gone hammer-happy again."

Damrod and Ciran threw him to the wolves without hesitation, their heads turning to where the flattened, slightly re-shaped arrow heads lay on the hearth, gleaming in their neatly arranged pattern of stars.

"Oh," Faramir breathed, a grin bulling its way into being on his tired face as he realized their plan. "He will love that!"

It was Damrod's turn to be the nudge, and with a little reluctance, Garad obeyed the prompt. The miniature shield of beeswax he'd spent the night carving rested on the bottom of an upturned bucket on a square of linen in the cool spot of air from a ventilation shaft, well away from the heat of the fire. Using both hands to pick the cloth up by its corners, he carefully conveyed it to rest on the open palm Faramir held out to him.

"He will like this more," Faramir murmured, studying the detail Garad had labored over until his eyes had crossed in cramp. With great care, his Captain handed the delicate thing back to him, and Garad returned it to its protected spot with a vast sense of relief.

When he turned back to Faramir, the other Man was looking at the pad of chamois in front of Ciran, where the lad had arranged all the silver he had caged and then cleaned for the crucible.

There was plenty and to spare, but it didn't stop Faramir from frowning as he realized his inability to contribute. Any silver that came his way went into their bellies or for their boots, and his brother was as bad. It was a vicious irony that while Denethor ate off plates of gold, his sons were the two poorest Men in Gondor.

"Ow!" Faramir exclaimed suddenly, his retaliatory swat landing solidly against Ciran's blocking arm. Completely unrepentant, the lad held up a long strand of light-colored hair he had plucked from their Captain's unsuspecting skull, displaying it proudly before laying it carefully with the other "silver" he had collected.

Laughing along with Garad, Damrod lifted his chin in the direction of the storeroom, drawing their attention to the signal that the Halflings were about to join their company.

Ciran kept Faramir sitting when he would he would have risen, through the simple expedient of using his Captain as the means to climb to his own feet. Faramir got his own back with a snake-strike hand to the youth's ankle, almost but not quite pulling him to the floor as he staggered past, reminding the cub he was the Big Dog in this pack.

Ciran shepherded the two Hobbits ahead of him, steering them with a hand on each of their shoulders. They looked like they could use the guidance, as if a night's sleep had served only to reveal how truly weary they were. He saw Frodo frown in curiosity as his gaze fell on the upturned bucket. He stopped next to it, bending over it stiffly. Sam stopped with him, picking the bucket up carefully, to let Frodo see the tiny wax carving at his ease. He exclaimed softly in delight, not quite touching the wax with an extended finger.

Sam saw the real shield first, tapping Frodo with a much gentler elbow than Ciran had employed to draw his Master's attention to it. A slow smile blossomed on Frodo's face, until it matched the grin on Sam's.

"You fixed it," Frodo said.

"Working on it," Garad admitted.

Faramir gestured an invitation for the Halflings to come and sit with them. Frodo waited for Sam to carefully replace the bucket where he had found it before accepting. They all shifted, making their move to allow their guests to have the best seats by the fire look like they were merely spreading out.

"Now then," Damrod said by way of good morning. "Would you like some tea?"

"Tea?" Frodo echoed wistfully. "I can't remember when we last had a proper cup of tea…."

"It weren't that long ago," Sam told him, and Garad well understood the concern showing in the Halfling's expression for his friend. It was so easy to lose yourself in never-ending fear and strife, to forget the terribly important, commonplace things once taken for granted. Old soldiers like Damrod knew that, and so the tough, deadly Man knew how to brew a cup of tea and coddle an egg or make a burnt sugar or honey custard just like a lord's nurse or a farmer's granny. It was Damrod who remembered their birthdays and hoarded treasures all year to make Yule special, regardless of how evil the days were surrounding it.

"Thank you," Frodo said, accepting his over-sized mug. He blew on the tea, falling back into old, pleasant routine before taking a sip of the hot brew. His sigh of satisfaction was both reward and spur for Damrod, who produced a broad platter of small cakes and sweet breads he had been coaxing from the coals while he and Ciran had worked over the shields. Frodo didn't waste time on manners before diving into the offered treats with a gratifying greed, Sam right behind him.

They all helped themselves to some, so that their guests would not hesitate to take the lion's share. Garad had no worries that they would lose room for the proper breakfast Damrod was preparing. Let them eat themselves into a stupor, while they had the chance.

Munching on a tea cake with another waiting in one hand, Frodo reached out his other to touch the surface of the round-shield.

"Needs sanding," he said, with only a slight spray of crumbs. "Have you got a file, Sam?"

"After we eat," Sam replied. "I don't fancy chewing on grit with my griddle cakes!"

Frodo laughed, nodding in agreement.

"What's the little shield for?" Sam asked, between bites.

It was a difficult question to answer, mired in the customs of courtesy and the necessities of politics, and Garad as well as Frodo turned to Faramir.

"Every Beren must have his Luthien," his Captain replied, with a gentle smile.

Frodo laughed, Sam snorted, Faramir frowned, and Garad tensed. It was never a good idea to rouse the protective instinct his Captain harbored for his older brother.

"The Steward's family is descended from Luthien and Beren," Ciran said, a neat effort to both warn and mollify that failed as Sam rolled his eyes and Faramir's mouth grew tight.

"We heard," Sam said, with a long-suffering air that made Frodo laugh again.

"Certain similarities were remarked upon when Boromir was in Imladris," Frodo quickly explained as he saw Faramir's frown deepen, but his attempt at smoothing things over was marred by his amusement.

"The loremasters of Imladris compared Boromir to Beren?' Faramir demanded. "Why?"

"They saw him try to shoot an arrow," Sam answered, when Frodo tried to buy time to frame his answer through recourse to another tea cake.

Ciran gave a low whistle of dismay, perfectly expressing Garad's opinion of anyone fool enough to hand Boromir a bow, especially with arrows to go with it.

"Luthien was the archer," Faramir said quietly, torn between his loyalty to his brother and his essential honesty.

"Aye," Sam agreed. "We heard that, too!"

It was Garad's turn to laugh. They'd all heard that before, though hopefully Boromir had put it in more circumspect terms in Imladris. It was one thing to call Garad a pussy, but quite another to inform some bow-wielding Elf lord of the Ancient Days he was.

"How many bows did he break?" Ciran demanded, ignoring Damrod's reproving look.

"Two," Sam answered. "Then they wouldn't let him try any more."

"Nor would we," Garad agreed. "Not while he was sober, anyway."

The Halflings gawped at him.

"He thinks about it too much," Faramir said, still frowning. "All else comes so naturally to him, but the bow is not easy in his hand."

"Unless he's drunk," Garad amended. "Then he can shoot the eye out of a fly."

"He gets in his own way," Faramir said. "He knows it, and yet still he tries too hard. He need not, not when he can carry the day in any other combat!"

"Hope springs eternal," Ciran grinned.

"He should not be mocked," Faramir snapped.

"Dangerous, that," Frodo agreed, his expression solemn despite the twinkle in his eyes.

Sam snorted. "Nor patronize him, neither!"

Faramir's anger turned to worry, his fingers flexing on his mug.

"What…" he started, then thought better of his initial question. "How… did my brother… carry… himself among the Elves?"

Frodo and Sam looked at each other, Frodo shrugging mutely.

"He were Boromir," Sam finally said.

"Oh," Faramir sighed, and then it was quiet for a little, as they all contemplated the implications of that statement.

"I've learned that Elves are much like Men or Hobbits," Frodo told them after another cake or two, and Garad had the impression he was choosing his words with care. "Each one is different in their manner and temperament. Some of them liked Boromir very much…."

"And others did not," Faramir finished.

"I think they found him… difficult," Frodo corrected with his own smile. "They expected one thing, and got quite another!"

Faramir drew his lower lip between his teeth as he considered what Frodo had said – and what he hadn't. It brought his likeness to his older brother sharply to the fore, and Garad saw Frodo's smile fade as his gaze shifted to the round-shield drying by the fire.

"Now don't you go worryin' none about Mr. Boromir and the Elves," Sam said, more for Frodo's benefit than Faramir's, Garad suspected. "Why, he and Glorfindel were like two tweenagers let away from the apron strings for the first time!"

"Glorfindel?" Faramir repeated, his eyebrows hitting his hairline.

"The Balrog slayer," Frodo added, his smile coming back as Faramir blinked at him.

"Glorfindel the Demon Slayer is a Firstborn Eldar," Faramir said slowly, seeking solace for his consternation in his tea.

"And a right nice lad, too," Sam assured him cheerfully. "It were a right treat to see some of the faces when he and Boromir got up to callin' each other "Long Ears" and "Round Ears" and seeing who could beat who in what!"

Faramir choked, spitting out a spray of tea to dew his beard and bead his covering blanket.

"Just like that," Frodo grinned as Ciran whacked their coughing Captain on the back helpfully. "

"That's our Captain-General," Garad chuckled. "First in war, last in diplomacy!"

"I don't know," Frodo said. "He does all right, if you ask me. There's something about him, some kind of honesty…. He makes you find things inside, things you never knew you had until you met him."

"He has a great heart," Faramir murmured. "Big enough to hold all of Gondor."

"And more besides," Frodo agreed, sobering once again. "I think his shoulders are strong enough and broad enough to carry the whole world, if we'd let him try."

Despite himself, Garad's mind returned to the memory of Boromir's shade coming toward them. He shivered with the remembered cold of the Anduin, and he thought of the story Frodo had told them, of Boromir dying in the River, with all their hope safe upon his shoulders….

"Breakfast," Damrod said briskly, bringing them both back to the moment by handing Frodo the first plate full of griddle cakes dripping with butter, venison sausage, and fried eggs with golden yolks and firm whites speckled with fresh ground black pepper. It was impossible for Frodo not to be swept back to happiness by it. The burden he carried was silent and light for once, their foe perhaps cunning enough to allow the rest that would enable the Halflings to go on.

"Butter and eggs!" Sam gasped in delight as his own plate was handed to him. "You've got a cow and chickens in here?!"

"Crocks," Garad explained. "Eggs and butter stored in brine for the most special of occasions!"

"Damrod guards them as fiercely as a dragon does his gold," Faramir said, wheezing a little. It was the last thing said for a long time, the only sound being that of chewing and the scraping of forks against the metal plates on their wooden trenchers. The two Halfings were the last to set theirs aside.

"Ohhh," Sam sighed, rubbing his full belly with both hands. "I'm starting to feel like a Hobbit again!"

"What would complete the transformation?" Damrod asked him with a smile.

"A hot bath," Sam answered promptly. "And another meal or three like that!"

"You shall have all of them before you leave here," Faramir promised.

"If you only had some pipeweed…." Sam sighed.

It was Faramir's turn to ply an elbow on Ciran, who popped up immediately, trotting off to where their Captain kept his personal store of herbs and healing supplies.

"You don't mean…" Frodo began, his eyes widening. "But Boromir said the Men of the South don't use it!"

"We do not smoke it," Faramir corrected. "We cannot support its growth here in such quantity, not and feed ourselves, nor am I convinced that it is a healthy habit to learn. But we do grow a small amount, for it is a virtuous herb in other respects." Faramir adjusted his blanket, tapping the air in front of him in the direction of the Hobbits. "In cases of nettle rash – "

A gale of laughter from the Halflings stopped Faramir in mid-sentence. Only the reappearance of Ciran with a thick twist of dried brown leaves stopped their mirth.

"You will like Aragorn," Frodo said, using his little fingers to blot the corner of his eye-lashes free of tears.

"Does he like to lecture on the virtuous nature of herbs?" Ciran asked, obeying Faramir's nodded command to hand the pipe-weed to Frodo.

"Only when he's addled," Sam replied cheerfully, accepting Ciran's assistance to gain his feet with a happy groan. "I'll just fetch our pipes, Mr. Frodo, and we'll have us a proper coze before elevenses!"

"Elevenses?" Damrod asked quietly, gesturing for Frodo's mug to refill.

"A snack," Frodo answered. "Something to fortify us until lunch!"

It was Faramir's turn to laugh. Grinning, Garad reached into his tool box, and found the file for Faramir, confident that Sam would be returning with more than a pipe. Sure enough, Sam returned with an armload, and had weighed Ciran down in the bargain.

"Did you bring an entire blacksmith's kit with you?" Garad asked as files, picks, hammers, all Hobbit-sized, were put on the ground between Frodo and Sam. The pipes were in Sam breast pocket, Garad noted, as something far too precious to risk dropping.

"You never know what will come in handy," Sam replied. "Now bring that shield over here, if you can lift the great thing…."


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13 --- Naked Among the Ents

"What -- ?" Boromir came awake with a start.

Fern fronds, moss and earth rained lightly onto his face and bare chest. The ground, the walls, the ceiling, everything about him was shaking, a rumble thrumming through the earth.

A Mumakil charge? Cavalry? Nazgul bombarding the walls?

No, he was in Fangorn Forest. He sat up, looked for his Hobbit friends. He turned sharply about, scanning the shelter quickly. No sign of them.

"Merry! Pippin! To me!"

No answer, just more earth shuddering noise and vibration.

Boromir stood, got his balance when his wounded leg stabbed at him, made worse by the unsteady floor. Not waiting to dress, he drew his sword and wrapped the elven cloak about his arm as partial shielding against enemy blades. He charged outside at a lurching run his wounded leg throbbing angrily.

"Merry! Pippin!"

The loud rumbling drowned him out. He had never heard a sound quite like it before. It was coming from ahead and to his left through the forest. As he got closer he heard something else -- a voice?

"Please. You must help us! Our friends are out there!"

"Merry!"

He veered aside, running harder, crashing through the underbrush, his sword held clear, and his left hand and arm protectively low before him. He broke out into a clearing, his sword at the ready.

"Boromir! What are you doing?"

He came to a staggering halt, relieved to see Merry and Pippin apparently unharmed. He moved quickly to stand before them, crouched in battle ready position.

"It's all right," Merry said quickly. "They're friends!"

"Who?"

"Treebeard, Quickbeam, and the others. They're having a meeting."

"Where are they?"

"Right here," Pippin said. "They look like trees. See?" He waved an arm at the massive trees circling the glade. "They're Ents and they're talking to one another. It's called an Ent moot."

Boromir's jaw dropped. He turned his head enough to study their expressions, sure they had to be playing some kind of elaborate prank. "Ents are not real. It's just a story." He remembered telling Faramir that, years ago. Faramir still stubbornly maintained they might exist. Despite being teased ruthlessly for it.

"Not real! Hhhrrrooommm!" A booming rumbling voice, sounding miffed. Boromir swung about trying to find the source. "Just a story!"

One of the trees moved and bent toward him. Startled, Boromir realised the voice had come from somewhere amid the thing's branches. Then, he saw it. Eyes, huge, green-gold, like sunlight on leaves, opening and closing, looking at him curiously above a craggy nose and split wood mouth.

Boromir stared, and stared some more. The thing blinked. He dragged his eyes from it to look at Merry and Pippin to check they were seeing it too. They held his gaze, their lips twitching, then breaking into full grins apparently finding his dumbstruck expression comical. He remembered to close his mouth. Then their eyes went lower and they smirked. Boromir's face burned as he realised what they were seeing. He lowered his left arm to cover his groin.

Merry bit his lip. "I'm glad to see you're not cold."

"Even though you're naked." Pippin snuffled, trying not to laugh.

"The Little One is awake." That was the tree talking again.

"Little One!" Merry exclaimed, eyebrows climbing.

"Maybe by comparison to an Ent!" Pippin said. He and Merry looked at one another, looked at Boromir again, spluttered harder.

Boromir unwound the cloak from about his arm and covered himself.

"Exactly what did Aragorn put in that water?" he demanded.

"Aragorn? Nothing," they assured. For some obscure reason, Merry patted the top of Pippin's head as if measuring his height. They wiped tears of laughter from their faces. "This is Fangorn, remember?"

"Boromir, meet Treebeard," Merry said. "He's the leader of the Ents."

"Umm," Boromir looked up and up and up some more. Saw the green-gold eyes were still watching him. He simply could not believe it. He couldn't think. "Hello."

Merry and Pippin snorted. He flicked a glare at them and they subsided.

"I am… glad… to see you… well." The thing's – the Ent's – words were delivered very very slowly.

Boromir had to concentrate carefully, his head spinning with disbelief. It didn't help when he thought he saw Treebeard close one eye in a premeditated wink to Merry and Pippin. Then it said, "You seemed… so fragile… Littlle One … when I carried you… ."

"Thank you," Boromir interrupted. His leg was hurting and he was losing patience. He had to get to Edoras. Then, he realised what it had said, "You carried me?" That meant it must be able to walk. But that couldn't be, trees couldn't walk.

"He takes really big steps," Merry said, reading his expression.

"We got here fast," Pippin added, studiously not looking at his cousin and chewing on the inside of his lip to stop himself laughing again.

"It was too far… for you to walk," Treebeard said slowly, " Little One."

Boromir gave Merry and Pippin a suspicious look. They looked upward, all innocence.

"Speaking of walking too far," Merry said seriously. "You should be resting that leg, not running all over the forest."

"You were missing," Boromir growled.

Merry had the grace to look a little abashed. Pippin said brightly, "We didn't go far, and we had important business. "

"The Ents are deciding whether or not to go to war against Saruman," Pippin explained.

That made Boromir's eyebrows climb. And not just at the prospect of unexpected and formidable allies. He only now realised there were several of the creatures standing about the glade, talking in their low rumbling voices or watching he and the Hobbits.

"Which way does it look like going?" he asked."

Merry sighed and traded a disappointed look with Pippin. "No."

"Oh. Too bad. Rohan and Gondor could use their help. We need to get to Edoras. I'm worried about Theodred and his father. If we hurry we should still be able to catch Aragorn. Do you think your friends would – ?

"Erm, Boromir," Pippin interrupted. "How long do you think it is since Aragorn and the others left?"

Boromir glanced up at the sky, studying the angle of the sun through the trees to check his earlier guess. "It's mid-afternoon. They left early morning."

Merry and Pippin again traded looks, their eyebrows raised, and their lips pursed in silent whistles. "Oh, boy," Pippin said.

"Early morning two days ago," Merry corrected.

"What? No, that can't be –" But of course they would know. "How…? I couldn't have…?"  
"Gandalf knew you wouldn't rest long enough for your wounds to heal," Merry said. "So he…."

"He didn't!"

"He did. He said he would see you sleep as long as you needed."

Boromir let out a heavy sigh, lowered his head and ran a hand through his hair. "Of all people, Gandalf should know better." His voice rose with the force of his impatience. "I can't afford to lose two days! Dammit! Why didn't you wake me?"

There was a moment's silence. Then Merry said, "Not much point in it, really. You wouldn't have been able to walk."

"Treebeard's water worked well on your leg," Pippin commented, bending forward to look at the wound. "It's closed over."

Merry gave a relieved sigh. "Good thing you didn't tear it open again."

Boromir waved a hand at the giant Ents. "They carried me once! I would only need to get to the edge of the forest. Then we'd be in Rohan where I could find a horse."

Merry and Pippin regarded him sympathetically.

"Maybe there'll be good news about your friend," Pippin said.

Treebeard stepped forward, startling Boromir. He'd never seen a tree walk before. The earth shook. Those giant feet were very dangerous, a well placed kick would bring down a Mumakil. Give him a regiment of Ents and he'd take down the Black Gates. Treebeard came another step closer. Boromir moved to place himself between the creature and his small friends.

"It's all right, Boromir," Pippin said. Merry adding, "He won't hurt us."

"Not intentionally," Boromir allowed. "But hearing 'oops I'm sorry I stepped on you' is not much use after you're dead."

"We couldn't hear it if –" Merry shut his mouth with a snap as Boromir gave him a look.

"It would make a good inscription on a head stone, though," Pippin said brightly, watching Treebeard and not catching the warning that had silenced his cousin.

"We have agreed," Treebeard announced in his painfully slow deliberate fashion.

He said nothing more and Boromir wondered if he'd fallen asleep. He had no idea how Merry and Pippin had had the patience to deal with the Ent this far.

"Yes?" Merry prompted.

"I have told your names to the Entmoot and we have agreed: you are not Orcs."

Boromir gaped and restrained the urge to kick the Ent's foot to wake it up more fully. He wasn't wearing his boots. His sword would make a good sharp prod. Then he'd probably get stepped on, if Treebeard felt it at all. Maybe that was not such a good idea. But, if they could not be harmed by a sword…. They could be most useful in battle. They must have enormous strength, much more than a Mumakil. Boromir began imagining how he would place them on a battlefield.

"Well, that's good news," Pippin responded to the Ent.

"And what about Saruman?" Merry asked with evident annoyance. "Have you made a decision about him?"

That returned Boromir's attention to the awkward, slow conversation. Merry and Pippin had already thought to have the Ents challenge Isengard? He was duly impressed. He leaned back a little and looked up at Treebeard hopefully.

"Now don't be hasty, Master Meriadoc," Treebeard said.  
"Hasty!" Boromir exclaimed in disbelief, echoing the Hobbits. He was getting cold waiting for the Tree-Man to say anything at all.

"Our friends are dying out there! They need our help!" Merry declared passionately. "They cannot fight this war on their own!"

Boromir opened his mouth and shut it just as quickly for Merry had said it all for him. Pride warmed him; these two were doing a fine job of diplomacy.

The giant Tree-Man's eyes closed and opened again. "War, yes. It affects us all. But you must understand, young hobbit." There was another painfully long pause. Each word seemed to take an Age. Boromir wanted to order Treebeard to get to the point. His respect for his Hobbit friends grew exponentially with every slow, dragging word. Merry and Pippin might just win for Gondor a mighty ally.

"It takes a long time to say anything in old Entish," Treebeard at last concluded, "and we never say anything unless it is worth taking a long time to say."

Boromir was ready to walk away. He'd need to get some distance before he let out his frustrated scream.

Merry took a pace closer to Treebeard, his eyes gleaming with anger and his jaw set. "How can that be your decision?"

"This is not our war."  
"But you're part of this world! Aren't you?"

_A good tactic, Merry,_ Boromir nodded approval. About him the Ents shifted uncomfortably and eyed one another self-consciously. Maybe the Hobbits would yet sway them.

"You are young and brave, master Merry," Treebeard rumbled. "But your part in this tale is over. Go back to your home."

Merry put his coat back on and looked at Boromir in defeat.

"You did your best," Boromir said. He put a hand to each Hobbit's shoulder. "We will continue the fight. Come, back to the shelter. We will collect our things, and what supplies we might find, and leave for Edoras before the day grows any later."

"Maybe Treebeard's right," Pippin said dejectedly as Boromir released his grasp and they began moving away from the circle of the Entmoot. "We don't belong here, Merry. It's too big for us. What can we do in the end? We've always got the Shire."

Boromir and Merry exchanged a grim regard, knowing what the other was thinking.

"The fires of Isengard will spread," Merry said, his voice pitched low, his heart grieving, and tearing at Boromir more with every word. "And the woods of Tuckburough and Buckland will burn. And all that was once green and good in this world will be gone." Merry turned back to Pippin and lay his hand to his friend's arm, holding his gaze with heavy sorrow. "There won't be a Shire, Pippin," he finished with merciless truth.

A horn sounded, calling from afar, beautiful, stirring, alone.

Desperate.

"Aragorn!" Boromir whispered. He saw something that was not there, something Aragorn was seeing. A flash of exploding fire, huge stone squares hurled up and out, some turned to rubble, as if they weighed nothing.

"The Horn of Gondor," Pippin said.

"You loaned it to him." Merry turned sharply to Boromir. "Does that call mean he's in trouble?"

"Yes." Boromir ran a hand through his already disarrayed hair. "I caught sight of something, like an explosion. Dammit! There's nothing I can do from so far away! I hope Aragorn someone closer will hear, someone with more Men to bring to the fight. Again, he studied the enormous power in the Ents' limbs, the advantage of their height…. "They move fast," he murmured, "and they're damm near indestructible. " He sighed regretfully. "What I could do with a handful of them."

Pippin swung around and stalked toward Treebeard, his spine as stiff as an angry cat. "So you're just going to turn your backs on us all and stay nice and safe here?"

"You see?" Merry rounded to add. "How can you just stand there when people, good people are dying out there! The Horn calls for help!"

" Aragorn is High King!" Pippin said. "Will you not answer him?"

"The High King has returned?" Treebeard's large eyes blinked, then he stooped a little and looked down at Boromir. "Is this true, Steward's Son?"

"It is," Boromir said. "We must help him. We must stop Saruman."

"His armies grow larger and more vicious, hacking burning my friends." For the first time Treebeard sounded emotional, upset, angry. He turned and looked at his fellow Ents, who were gathering closer to him.

They talked slowly among themselves and Boromir waited as anxiously as Merry and Pippin. Finally, Treebeard turned back to them.

"We have not forgotten the days of the Kings of Men," he said in his rumbling slow manner. "The days of Elendil and Isildur and Anarion. Their sons call for aid. We will answer."

It was a long speech for an Ent and Boromir had hung on every word. "You will?"

"The Ents are going to war." Treebeard confirmed.

"Yes!"

Merry turned and grabbed Pippin by the shoulders and they danced a quick jig, turning in circles and lifting their feet high.

Boromir's elation at finding new, useful allies was dampened as he watched their celebration. He had led inexperienced youngsters into battle more times than he could count, and it never got any easier. Merry and Pippin had proven themselves as survivors, clever tacticians, and excellent diplomats. They would do well. Still, Boromir would not let them wander too far from him. This was no ordinary battle. They were about to take on Saruman who had already very nearly killed them all on Caradhras.

"Thank you," Boromir told Treebeard. "Your people's strength will make all the difference. When can you be ready to leave?"

"Now."

It was Boromir's turn to blink. They had been so incredibly slow. "I'll umm, go get dressed. We march for Isengard immediately." Boromir suddenly realised he had no idea where he was in regard to the outside world. "It shames me to admit it, but I do not know exactly which direction we need to go, nor how long it will take."

"It will be faster if we carry you."  
Boromir didn't particularly like it, but knew it was true. "I thank you."

"You are welcome." There was a pause, possibly deliberate, but with their slow manner it was hard to tell. "Little One. " Treebeard winked slowly at Merry and Pippin who struggled to keep their expressions neutral.

Deliberate.

"You put him up to that, didn't you?" Boromir asked, ducking low to follow the Hobbits back into their shelter.

They blinked innocently up at him. "You mean getting them to fight along side us?"

Boromir scowled. "Just remember, I'm the big brother. I invented this game."

"What game?"

"Wait for it, my turn will come."

"So," Merry said. "What's it like to have to look up to talk to someone, Boromir?"

"Refreshing. I do thank you very much. You were very good out there. You were as persuasive as Faramir."

They glowed at the compliment.

"Well," Merry said. "We were just thinking with their strength they could pull Saruman's fortress to pieces in no time."

Boromir shook his head. "Not Orthanc, they won't. It's Numenorean. But you're right they can do much damage to Saruman's outer defences and the like. They are such gentle sheltered creatures, I fear they may not be stirred to kill."

"They're tree shepherds," Merry said, watching as Boromir awkwardly pulled his trousers up over his wounded leg. "Shepherds defend their flocks to the death."

Boromir met his young friend's eyes with approval. "True. I stayed in Edoras before journeying further to Imladris. Theodred reported much destruction of the forests on his borders."

"Ahh," Pippin said. "If we tell them that, they'll squish every Orc they see."

"Showing them would be better," Merry said.

Again Boromir nodded. "Good thinking. The damage should be progressively worse the closer we get to Isengard."

"They'll fight," Pippin said. "And they can lift a Man like he's nothing."

"Or," Merry said, his lips twitching. "Like he's very little."

Boromir looked down his considerable nose at them. "Today's events, I believe, have proven otherwise." He settled his armoured cup into position with a significant pat.

"Hey!" merry exclaimed, turning swiftly to his cousin. "Do you think the water could have ….?"

"I dunno," Pippin said, equally hushed. "I never thought to check. Did you?"

Boromir snorted. "Gentlemen, shall we have the pissing competition another day. We have a battle to win. Listen carefully, these are your orders. Number one, stay close to me at all times."

"And number two is?" Merry prompted when Boromir said no more.

"The same as number one. The Ents could as easily kill us as the enemy in the heat of battle. They're not going to take time to check where they're putting those big feet. We get our backs to the wall and stay out of their way."

"Doesn't sound like we get to kill any Orcs," Pippin said glumly.

"We have a score to settle with them," Merry added seriously.

"We'll kill plenty enough," Boromir told them. "I'll have the Ents," he paused, "_shepherd_ some toward us." That earned the bad pun groan and roll of the eyes. "I too, feel the need to chop enemy heads."

Treebeard's bellow of outrage and pain rolled downhill, enveloping the smoking filth of Isengard and climbing again to disappear into the remnants of forest on the other side of the valley.

"These trees were my friends," the Ent said brokenly. "Creatures I had known from nut and acorn. They had voices of their own."

Pippin flinched. When they had discussed rousing the Ents to battle he hadn't really considered the amount of pain that would drive the rage. He looked up at Boromir's face, saw a grim recognition, a mirror of the Ents' pain and loss. The difference was there was no surprise, just bitter recognition and it struck Pippin that Boromir was not seeing felled trees and axed stumps, he was seeing his people, and the broken bodies and hacked off limbs of his soldiers who had given their lives at his command.

Boromir turned and caught Pippin's gaze. As if reading his thoughts, he said gravely, "Welcome to Gondor, Master Took."

"We stop this here," Merry said, equally solemn. "Before this becomes The Shire."

"And that is why Gondor fights," Boromir told them grimly.

"Today we are the destroyers," Treebeard said ominously. "Saruman! A wizard should know better!" He let out another thunderous cry and the earth shook, the trees behind them rustling with the force of it. "There is no curse in Elvish, Entish or the tongues of Men for this treachery."

"I'm sorry about your friends, Treebeard," Merry said quietly.

The Ent lowered a craggy eyebrow to glower at his three small friends protectively. "I am not sure you will be safe. You are so small."

"We'll fight our own battle, clear of yours," Boromir told him. "Any that get by you will meet our swords."

"Hrroomm," Treebeard rumbled, uncertain.

"The closer we are to danger," Pippin chimed in, "the farther we are from harm. It's the last thing Saruman will expect."

Boromir flicked a huh-what glance at him.

"Hmm," Treebeard considered. "That doesn't make sense to me. But then, you are very small. Perhaps you're right."

Boromir leaned closer to the Hobbits and whispered, "Faramir would never let me get away with that remark."

"But," Pippin said perkily, "You're not a Hobbit."

Merry who was looking over Treebeard's shoulder suddenly gasped a sharp breath. "Look at the trees, they're moving!"

"What do you mean," Pippin said. "You know they …."

"No. The _trees! _ Not the Ents."

"I've only just gotten used to Ents walking," Pippin said, "don't tell me the – " Then Pippin saw it. "The whole bloody forest is moving!"

When he found his voice again, Boromir said, "Faramir would love this. Walking trees." He shook his head in wonderment.

"Where are they going?" Merry asked.

"They have business with the Orcs in Rohan," Treebeard answered. "My business is with Isengard."

Boromir clapped Treebeard's bark-covered arm. He winced a little. He'd forgotten it was not flesh. "You send troops to the High King! Well done! The call is answered on both fronts."

"Rárum-rum! Come my friends. The Ents are going to war. It is likely that we go to our doom. The last march of the Ents."

"Put us down there by that old mill," Boromir instructed. He could not believe how easily the Ents had smashed through the outer wall. Already, they were stomping several Orcs at a time. Boromir grinned, he could watch this all day. But he wanted some of the action for himself. Staying by the mill also put them well clear of Saruman who would no doubt be well distracted by the Ents' attack. Boromir could almost wish he could see the look on the traitorous wizard's face.

Treebeard stooped and carefully lowered his three friends who jumped from his arms.

"Chase a few back this way, and I'll give these two some battle practice," Boromir said.

"Hurrrum." Treebeard sounded doubtful and said no more, hurrying off to claim some targets of his own.

"Best we don't get between the Ents and their sport," Boromir warned.

"Good advice," Pippin agreed, wincing as yet another Orc was rendered to black sloppy jelly that oozed between Ent toes. He retreated to the upper mill steps where he could stand with his shoulders level to Boromir's.

Boromir, Merry and Pippin waited a while, watching the battle from the mill steps. No Orcs came their way. The Hobbits weren't alone in their disappointment.

"All right," Boromir surrendered. "We move a little closer."

"Yes!" They cried, jumping up and down in celebration.

"This is not a game," he reminded them. "Stay close and do exactly as I tell you."  
"Yes, sir," they chorused, managing to sound serious.

A little further on they found a half-collapsed stone wall leaning drunkenly above one of the great maws hacked into the earth and turned into furnaces and foundries.

"This should get their attention," Boromir said. He put aside his sword and heaved at the wall, using a piece of broken timber as a lever. Slowly, then rapidly, the wall tumbled inward, crashing and caroming off the sides of the pit. Cries of outrage and pain sounded from below.

"Cowards!" Boromir bellowed downward, brandishing his sword. "Come out and fight!"

"They haven't got any archers, Boromir," Merry commented.

"Right," Pippin finished. "They won't dare come at you without archers. They probably heard what happened to their friends."

"You pickled 'em proper, Boromir," Merry crowed.

"All well and good," Pippin said, "But how do we get them up here?"

"Like that, maybe?" Merry jabbed a thumb behind him toward Boromir.

Pippin's eyes widened. "Oh, yeah," he said in a somewhat squeaky voice. "That should do it all right."

"Stand back," Boromir ordered.

Merry and Pippin traded impressed glances. "Yes sir!"

Boromir booted the now burning barrel of tar, sending it over the side. It burst open as it bounced off the wall and continued bouncing downward, splattering burning pitch over all below. Screams rose up.

It took only a moment or two before they got their first customers. At first, Boromir hogged all the fun. But after a while, as he began to hobble on his wounded leg, he allowed more assistance though not without offering advice.

"Block, block, dammit! _Block!_ Thrust up, _up_! Under the stroke. Use the backswing!"

Their was unholy joy in his voice and a great grin on his face.

From somewhere across the field of battle came an appalling inhuman scream. With a few savagely efficient strokes, Boromir finished off the opposition, leaving none alive on whom to turn his back as he pivoted to see what was happening. Merry and Pippin had already spotted their wounded ally.

"Two of the Ents are on fire!" Merry said with horror.

"Water," Boromir said, his expression desperate as he too saw the screaming staggering Ents, wreathed in flames. "There's got to be water here somewhere." Harried, he turned about, cried, "There was a river here once, I know there was."

"It's been dammed," Pippin said. "Up there, look."

Boromir followed the line of his pointing finger. "What the -- Oh, shit!"

"Break the dam!" Treebeard cried somewhere in the distance. "Release the river!"

"Oh, shit," Pippin echoed as an Ent pulled open the beams supporting the dam wall.

"Run!" Boromir yelled. "The mill!"

A moment later, he had caught them up in his arms. From behind came the threatening roar of the unleashed river, rushing toward them. From the apparent safety of Boromir's strong shoulders, Pippin dared look.

Furious at having been pent up so long, the river hissed and piled upon itself, higher and higher, a massive brown-white towering wall, racing faster and faster. There was a crashing thud, Boromir smashing the mill door open, barely slowling. He took the old mill steps two or three at a time, the boards creaking dangerously beneath his boots.

The water was faster.

It caught him about the knees, climbing with him up the stairs. The steps spiraled round, dizzying Pippin with the speed of their passage as he stared mesmerized at the water.

"Dammit!" Boromir cursed breathlessly as the reached the uppermost landing and the river rushed in, hunting them down. Boromir stood, panting, most of his weight on his good leg, holding a Hobbit under each arm. He shifted them higher against his shoulders as the water reached his hips. Pippin wanted to say put us down, but there was no place to go. All three of them looked hopefully upward, in search of refuge.

"There!" Boromir exclaimed, his chest heaving with a great breath of relief. "I can get you through there!"

Sunlight streamed through the broken shingled roof, a gap just big enough for a Hobbit to squeeze through.

"What about you?"

Boromir did not answer. "One at a time," he said.

Merry nodded. "I'll grab hold of your belt."

"What?" Pippin cried. "No …"

But Merry was already carefully sliding down to Boromir's hip. Boromir did not release him until he had a firm grasp on the sword belt.

"Wait! What about .." Pippin protested, staring horrified at the murky water slapping about Merry's shoulders.

"Shut up and go!" Merry snapped.

Boromir was already hoisting him up, the muddy water lapping at the Man's waist. Merry floated at his side, one hand anchored to the belt, the other clutched in the arm-hole of the leather over-tunic. Merry stared up at him, white-faced.

"Grab the edge!" Boromir ordered.

Pippin's head was level with the hole in the roof. He snatched at the shingles, the edge broke off in his gloved hand. He scrabbled about, found the timber joist, got a more secure hold. He heaved as Boromir pushed and suddenly he was sitting outside in the warm sunlight. All about the mill the water surged, swallowing everything and drowning anything inside the furnace holes. Steam hissed and billowed upward.

"Merry!" Pippin yelled. He stretched himself out flat on his belly on the shingles and stuck his head and shoulders back inside the hole. He reached down, his arm outstretched.

Boromir boosted Merry and Pippin guided his cousin's hand to the secure hold of the timber beam. "Pull on that!"

Pippin slid carefully back, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the sloping roof. Merry popped up beside him and immediately bent back down, calling, "Boromir!"

Pippin lay on the other side of the hole and peered inside. The water was now at Boromir's shoulders.

"Move back!" he warned.

He drew his dirk and, reaching up, attacked the shingles, alternating the blows between point and hilt. One of the shingles cracked a little. Too slow, the water would outpace him. He could not get any force to his hammering, his arm repeatedly sinking beneath the surface as he drew back. It was all he could do to maintain his grip on the slippery wire-wrapped hilt, he no longer dared flip his grasp but tried to prise at the shingle edges with the point. He punched with his left hand. Pippin glanced desperately about the rooftop, found nothing, looked back inside, seeking a better cudgel.

"Oy! Help us!" Merry bellowed. He whistled sharply, trying to draw the Ents to the rescue.

Pippin's attention was fixed on Boromir. The tide was at his throat, his chin lifted, his teeth gritted in angry determination. He treaded water with one hand and stubbornly hacked and punched at the shingle nail-heads with the other.

"Boromir!" Pippin cried.

"I. Am. Not. Fucking. Drowning. Twice!" Boromir growled, each word punctuated by another reverberating blow to the shingles that resisted as stubbornly as he fought.

Seeing his friend trapped and remembering him sprawled unconscious, dying on the riverbank, Pippin fought back tears of frustration.

"Don't worry," Boromir said, "I think I can get my head through the hole, at least."

"But –" Pippin turned, sitting up a little, looking for something he could use to tie the Man in place if need be.

A shadow fell across him. "Treebeard!" he exclaimed with great relief. "Boromir's trapped! He's too big to get through the hole!"

"Little One, huh?" Boromir said, his bark of laughter punctuated by a fist thudding into the boards.

"It isn't funny, dammit!" Pippin yelled down.

"Hhrrroom!" Treebeard, thankfully, did not wait to say more.

"Climb up!" Merry ordered Pippin as he clambered onto Treebeard's shoulder. "Get out of his way!"

Pippin obeyed hastily, realising what the Ent would do.

Treebeard bent a little, his powerful gnarled hands gripping the edges of the roof and heaving. The shingles shrieked and the timber joists gave way in a splintering crack. Treebeard tossed the roof aside as if it weighed nothing. Boromir blinked upward in astonishment. The muddy water subsided a little from about him as some of it escaped through the rents in the timber walls. Treebeard did not wait but reached down and scooped Boromir up into his splayed, branch-like hand.

Boromir shook his head, sending water flying from his hair. He stared downward at the devastation and ruin that had been Saruman's stronghold. The tower still stood, but the rest of it was gone, utterly destroyed.

"Good job!" Boromir whooped and slapped Treebeard's arm. "That's Isengard done!"

"He doesn't look too happy, does he?" Merry commented cheerfully.

Pippin saw where he was looking. Saruman was pacing furiously on the balcony of Orthanc, stopping to lean on the balustrade and glower down at the ruin of all his works, stranded in a sea of muddy water.

"Not too happy at all, Merry," Pippin chortled.

"Get down!" Boromir ordered. "Treebeard, find some place for us where he can't see. We do not know what power he yet possesses."

Some distance further out from the tower stood the remnants of the stone wall that had encircled the keep. Treebeard carefully set them down atop it, just inside the shelter of a leaning, half-wrecked gate-house. He prized the roof up a little, checked inside, and said, "Safe. No orc-rats."

"Young Mister Gandalf tells me…" Treebeard said, surprising Boromir with the form of address. "He comes to deal with Saruman. Your friends accompany him."

Boromir dipped his head in acknowledgment, very glad of the news. "Theoden King rides with them?" he asked.

'Yes. I am told to prepare for his arrival."

"Gandalf has freed him!" Boromir breathed relief. "Is there also news of Prince Theodred?"

"He did not say." Treebeard turned toward Orthanc. "I must keep guard. Quickbeam will attend you."

Boromir looked up, nodded greeting at the younger Ent. "I should come with you," "he told Treebeard.

"Hhhrrrooomm. You are wet… Stay in the sun." Treebeard left.

"I should be checking what's happening with Saruman." Boromir repeated, absently wringing water from his cloak.

"Leave him to Gandalf," Merry said. "You didn't drown, and you're not dying of pneumonia again, either."

"The sun will dry me as I walk. I want to go have a look at –"

"You have better things to do," Pippin said, reappearing at the door of the gate-house.

"Such as?"

"Beer."

Boromir and Merry swung toward him. "Beer! Did you say beer?"

"Beer. Pipeweed. Ham. Bread. Fruit. Dry firewood." Pippin grinned happily at them. "Follow the trail." He waved a hand at the apples bobbing everywhere in the dirty water. "I think we've found Saruman's private stores."

"My day finally gets better," Boromir exclaimed. He lay a hand to their shoulders. "Shall we go liberate the supplies, gentlemen?"


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

"I thought all Saruman's machines were destroyed?" Gimli said with a wink to Aragorn. "What is that infernal racket?"

Aragorn grinned at his friend, recognizing the sound with relief and anticipation. He touched the Horn of Gondor that hung about his shoulders, looking forward to returning it to Boromir.

King Theoden laughed. "It's infernal, but it's no machine. That's my Shield Son."

Aragorn blinked, then remembered, Boromir had called Theodred his Shield Brother.

He urged Brego onward, following close at Theoden's side, Legolas and Gimli a little behind them, Eomer following with Gandalf trailing. As they moved clear of the trees, Aragorn caught sight of the outer keep wall. It was now a ruin of tumbled stones, but the section close by the Gate House was more or less still intact.

He snorted amusement, taking in the welcome sight of his three friends, napping together. Atop the wall, Boromir sprawled deeply asleep on his back and snoring loudly, his mouth open, his hair slicked back, still damp and shining red-gold in the sunlight. He was stripped to the waist, his bare chest a patchwork of bruises and scars. His boots hung upside down on nearby stakes, drying out. Various pieces of Hobbit and Man-sized clothing hung about the wall. Aragorn didn't need to puzzle out how they had all gotten wet. Flood waters lapped at everything beyond the wall. Orthanc stood like an island in an inland sea. Aragorn's brows rose. Gandalf had told them what had happened, but not in detail. Aragorn was impressed. He smiled again, anywhere Boromir went the enemy body count would be incredible.

The Man had obviously well-earned his rest, as had his Hobbit companions. Merry was waking, wavering to his feet atop the wall. Pippin lay soundly sleeping, his head and shoulders propped against Boromir's bare chest. A faint curl of smoke drifted upward from Merry's pipe as he waved an arm and bowed toward them. Merry's bare foot surreptitiously poked first Pippin, then Boromir.

"Welcome, My Lords, to Isengard!" Merry greeted with a half-drunken smile.

Boromir sat up abruptly, dislodging Pippin who woke with a complaining groan, his eyes immediately widening as he saw the new arrivals. He stood suddenly, wobbling on his feet, and Boromir snatched him back from the edge, steadying him with his bare right arm. Aragorn frowned to see the scar of the arrow wound white against the tanned muscle. He wondered how the Man's leg had stood up to this recent bout of abuse.

"Aragorn! Legolas! Gimli!" Pippin and Merry called. They bent and began climbing down to come to them. Boromir busied himself pulling on his boots, but he wasn't concentrating on the task, his head lifting repeatedly to grin happily at them. Aragorn felt a weight ease from his chest and a warmth flood in to take its place, happy in return as he realised Boromir was fully recovered and elated at their various victories.

"You finally took a bath? That will help your chances with the Rohirrim lasses." Gimli engulfed the Hobbits in his embrace.

Boromir laughed. Finished with his task, he jumped down from the wall. Aragorn noted a slight limp and twist of the face against a twinge of pain.

"Welcome all!" Boromir greeted, beaming broadly. His smile lessened a little as he met Theoden's eyes and reached up a hand in salute to take his forearm in a warrior's grip. "My Lord, it is good to see you well again."

"Thanks to Gandalf," Theoden said, smiling and swinging his leg over his horse to dismount smoothly. Ignoring Boromir's attempt at proper form, he held the Man's gaze a long, intense moment, his eyes gleaming with tears. Then he drew Boromir into a hard hug, slapping him on the back. When he drew back again, Theoden gave a fatherly swipe at Boromir's hair, and scolded, "They told me you had gotten yourself hurt and taken captive. Again."

Boromir snorted a laugh. "It was nothing. Just a little side trip to liven things up a bit."

Theoden chuckled. "I am most pleased to find you well." He added solemnly, "Most pleased."

Boromir's mirth, too, vanished as he asked, "Theodred?"

Aragorn could see the dark fear in his friend's eyes, the urgent hope.

"Alive," Theoden said. Unable to hold Boromir's intent regard he did not see the relieved exhalation. "Only due to Gandalf and Lord Aragorn's timely arrival. He remains gravely ill."

Boromir scrubbed at his face and reached out to squeeze Theoden's shoulder. "He is strong. If he breathes, there is yet hope."

Theoden nodded and turned back, a smile again easing his mouth as he regarded Boromir, the living proof of that hope. "You show us it can be done. Theodred wanders in fever. I am anxious to return to him, and thus I am greatly relieved to find our task here all but done."

"Thanks to my small and large friends, " Boromir said, gathering the Hobbits to him with a wave of his hand. "May I introduce Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, warriors of the Shire."

Theoden greeted them.

Aragorn dismounted, standing a moment, drinking in the sight as Boromir, laughing, was wrapped about the waist by Gimli's hug, Legolas' arm draped over his shoulders at the same moment. Then Boromir met his eyes. Aragorn nodded and moved closer, clasped his friend's forearm.

Boromir shook his head, grinning, then drew Aragorn hard into his embrace.

Aragorn's vision blurred as emotion swamped him. "It is most good to see you well again, my friend," he said, clearing his throat. "You are recovered much faster than I dared hope."

"Thanks to you," Boromir said intently.

Aragorn nodded, embarrassed by the depth of gratitude in the Man's keen eyes.

"Treebeard's magic water helped, too," Pippin said cheerily.

"Indeed it did," Aragorn agreed, bending to hug both Hobbits quickly. "It has remarkable healing properties."

"I carried some with me," Boromir said. "For Theodred." He turned back to the clothing hanging about the wall, fished inside his tunic and produced a small flask. He held it out to Theoden, saying, "It would have been more, but this was the only container we had with us. I am hoping Treebeard can supply both Gondor and Rohan with much more."

"It is truly so efficacious?" Theoden asked, then shook his head, smiling again. "Obviously, yes," he corrected, taking in the scars on Boromir's chest and arm.

"Treebeard tells me you convinced him to join us?" Aragorn asked the Hobbits.

"We did," Merry said proudly, bouncing up on his toes.

"But the horn tipped it," Pippin finished.

"You heard it?" Aragorn said in mild astonishment. He had known the sound was supposed to carry to allies no matter how far, but -- Then he realised, of course, it would call to Boromir.

"I saw something," Boromir said as Aragorn turned to him. "An explosion?"

Aragorn nodded. "The Deeping Wall."

Boromir's jaw dropped. "The Wall! Surely not?"

"Saruman's evil," Theoden said grimly. "An explosive powder."

"The Wall erupted beneath Aragorn's feet," Legolas said. "He was thrown outward, down among the Uruks, unconscious."

"Legolas…" Aragorn sighed as he saw the colour drain Boromir's face. "I survived."

"With help," Gimli said, pointedly.

Aragorn snorted. "Yes, I thank you both, -- again – for coming to my rescue."

"If the Wall was breached," Boromir said, "How did you hold?"

"We were forced back into Fort Eolingas. It was then I called on the horn. Gandalf arrived shortly after with Eomer and a full Eored to outflank the enemy."

"And the trees ate the rest." Gimli grunted with satisfaction. "I hope they didn't get indigestion too badly."  
Boromir blinked at the three of them, then suddenly barked a laugh and clapped them on the shoulders. "Well done! Now, we take down Saruman, right, Gandalf?"

Still seated atop his horse, Gandalf nodded, his lips pursed in a thin smile. The magnificent white stallion he rode tossed its head, snorting, as if eager for the task. It bowed low to meet Boromir's gaze with sharp intelligence.

"You are beautiful," Boromir complimented, holding out his hand for permission to stroke the neck. "I have never seen the like." He returned the bow. "May I have your name?"

"This is Shadowfax, Lord of the Mearas. Shadowfax, meet Boromir, Captain General and Warden of the White Tower of Gondor." The horse took a step forward and dipped its head in greeting.

"I am honoured," Boromir said, his voice a whisper of amazement. He had of course heard of the animal, but had never seen him. "My Lord."

"We will ride to the tower, rather than get your boots wet again, Boromir," Aragorn said. "Eomer has a horse for you."

The Man came forward and Boromir reached up, laughing as Eomer glowered down at him and said, "Aren't you out of uniform, My Lord General?"

"The Ladies of Gondor and Rohan would like to instate this as regulation," Boromir said, adding with a wink, "At least for me."

Eomer laughed and held out the reins of Boromir's mount, a fine chestnut stallion with a white blaze. "His name is Firelight," Eomer introduced.

Boromir stroked the horse's neck. "Perhaps I should get dressed first," he said with a smile and turned to gather his clothing from the wall.

Merry and Pippin were already collecting their things. "Yes," Merry called to him, "You don't want to frighten the Ents again." Pippin finished, "Well, at least he has his trousers on this time."

Eomer hooted and Aragorn huffed a laugh. There was a story in there somewhere and he intended hearing it over an ale or two, later. For now, he drew a deep breath, there was Saruman to face.

"Is it wise to take Merry and Pippin anywhere near him?" Boromir asked, turning back to frown up at Gandalf. He finished adjusting the clasps on his tunic and pulled his elven cloak about his shoulders.

"He no longer has power to contend with me," Gandalf said. "They will be safe, but keep them close."

Boromir scowled at the amendment.

"Pippin," Boromir called. "You ride with me."

"Merry," Aragorn said, reaching down a helping hand and guiding Brego a little closer.

Boromir boosted Pippin up onto his horse, then watching as Merry was helped aboard he did a double –take. "Brego?" He looked to Aragorn in alarm. "This is Theodred's mount."

"He is," Aragorn said. "He came to me."

Brego huffed a breath, taking in Boromir's scent, checking him and asking where have you been? Boromir breathed back and Brego ears flicked forward with happy recognition.

Eomer scrubbed at his bearded jaw and explained, "He fretted badly for my cousin. We could not calm him and he would not eat. But when Lord Aragorn entered the stables and spoke with him, he returned to himself once more."

Boromir looked up to Aragorn in mild surprise. With Pippin safely aboard, he mounted, swinging into the saddle with a muted grunt of pain and a flinch. Aragorn made a mental note to check that wounded leg at the first opportunity.

"Take that Healer's Eagle Eye, elsewhere," Boromir told him. "I'm fine and I'm not dropping my trousers in this company again."

Pippin cleared his throat and poked Boromir in the back. "But…"

"That will be all, Master Took," Boromir said warningly. "Brego?" he prompted as they began riding toward the Tower.

"He saved my life," Aragorn said.

"He's good at that." Boromir leaned over a little to give the horse a fond pat.

Aragorn urged the horse forward toward Gandalf.

"Aye," Gimli said. "Aragorn gave Legolas and I a few grey hairs I can tell you. Dragged off a cliff face by a Warg." Aragorn looked over his shoulder in time to catch Boromir's alarmed reaction. "Worse than yours and Frodo's fall."

"Much worse," Legolas put in quietly.

Aragorn saw the darkness of remembered danger in the Elf's eyes. He waited until they drew level with him. "I drifted a long way down river. There, Brego found me and returned me to Helms Deep."

Boromir shook his head and let out a breath. "I am most glad you are unharmed."

"First the cliff then the exploding wall," Gimli said. "I'm glad you ride with us again, laddie. We need you to watch his back."

"Gladly!" Boromir chuckled.

"Pot calling the kettle black," Merry muttered at Aragorn's back, and suddenly Boromir was laughing. It was good to have he and his 'Little Ones' back.

"When we are done with Saruman," Boromir told Theoden. "I ride with you to the side of my Shield Brother."

Theoden clasped his shoulder in wordless gratitude.

It was but a short distance to the Tower steps. Gandalf warned again of the power of Saruman's voice. Boromir doubted the traitorous wizard could say anything that would overcome his boiling hatred and anger. Then again, Saruman had deceived Gandalf and taken him prisoner.

Treebeard lumbered toward them, his giant feet and legs making ripples through the flood water that stranded Orthanc like a lighthouse in an ocean.

"Young master Gandalf," the Ent greeted, making Boromir blink. Just how old was the creature? "I'm glad you've come. Wood and water, stock and stone I can master, but there's a _Wizard_ to manage here, locked in his tower."

"I thank you for your timely assistance, my old friend," Gandalf inclined his head. He looked toward the tower. There was no sign of Saruman. "He is inside?"

"Yes. He was standing on the balcony but seeing you, fled."

Aragorn and Brego moved closer, the others following. "Show yourself!" Aragorn shouted.

"Be careful;" Gandalf warned once more. "Even in defeat Saruman is dangerous."

Gimli leaned around Legolas to growl, "Then let's just have his head and be done with it."

Boromir snorted. "I'll second that."

"No," Gandalf said quietly. "We need him alive. We need him to talk."

A voice called out from above, and Saruman came into view, standing on the top of the tower.

"You have fought many wars and slain many men Théoden king," Saruman called down. "and made peace afterwards. Can we not take counsel together, as we once did, my old friend?"

Despite his earlier resolutions and Gandalf's warning, Boromir found he needed all the strength of his will. He continued to concentrate fiercely, for otherwise the words seemed compelling and reasonable.

"Can we not have peace, you and I?" Saruman asked.

Boromir turned to observe Theoden, to try to guess how badly the voice spell may affect one so recently released from the Wizard's snare. Theoden flicked a glance to him, held his eyes a moment, and Boromir smiled and nodded. This was the Theoden of old, he would not be deceived again.

"We shall have peace," Théoden responded in a deceptively mild tone. Saruman smiled, smooth and treacherous as a snake.

"We shall have peace…" Theoden repeated, the sharp edge of anger and determination ringing in the words, "when you answer for the burning of the Westfold, and the children that lie dead there. We shall have peace, when the lives of the soldiers, whose bodies were hewn even as they lay dead against the gates of the Hornburg, are avenged! When you hang from a gibbet for the sport of your own crows… we shall have peace."

"Gondor stands with Theoden King!" Boromir seconded, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Gibbets and crows?" Saruman spat. "Dotard! And as for you, Son of Sauron's puppet, you should be dead!"

"I am the Steward of the High King!" Boromir declared. "If you want me dead, send soldiers who have brains as well as brawn. Your Uruks made easy meat for my blade!" Saruman's face purpled, and Boromir held up a mock apologetic hand. "Wait, I forget, you don't have an army any more, do you?"

Gimli laughed and Eomer cheered.

"What do you want Gandalf Greyhame?" Saruman said, ignoring the taunting. "Let me guess: the key of Orthanc, or perhaps the key of Barad-dûr itself, along with the crowns of the seven kings and the rods of the five wizards!"

"Your treachery has already cost many lives," Gandalf replied with grim sorrow. "Thousands more are now at risk, but you could save them Saruman. You were deep in the enemy's counsel."

_Don't bargain with the murdering madman!_ Boromir wanted to say. _We can gain information by other means._

Saruman indeed seemed pleased, a bitter smile twisting his lips as he considered his apparent advantage. "So you have come here for information. I have some for you."

Saruman reached inside the sleeve of his robes and held out a round black stone that began swirling with light from inside. Boromir groaned and lifted a hand to his face. He had seen such a thing before.

"Something festers in the heart of Middle-Earth. Something that you have failed to see," Saruman told Gandalf. "But the Great Eye has seen it. Even now he presses his advantage. His attack will come soon."

"You speak of my father," Boromir called, lowering his hand and regarding his enemy coldly. "You do not surprise me, Wizard. I go now to remove that threat."

Gandalf moved Shadowfax forward protectively as Saruman lifted his staff.

"You're all going to die!" Saruman sneered at Boromir then looked again at his former friend. "But you know this don't you, Gandalf." Saruman's attention turned to Aragorn. "You cannot think that this Ranger will ever sit upon the throne of Gondor. This exile, crept from the shadows, will never be crowned king."

"Again your news is old," Boromir taunted. "Aragorn already is King. He has my fealty."

"And mine!" Theoden called.

"The Elves stand with the High King!" Legolas called.

"As do the Dwarves!" Gimli growled. "The Great Alliance is reformed. Your days are over, and your master's are numbered."

"Shall I kill him now?" Legolas asked, his hand reaching for his bow.

Aragorn lifted a quelling hand. "He digs his own grave."

"Gandalf does not hesitate to sacrifice those closest to him," Saruman said. "Those he professes to love. Tell me… what words of comfort did you give the Halfling before you sent him to his doom?"

Gandalf flinched.

"The path that you have set him on can only lead to death," Saruman snarled.

"I've heard enough." Gimli spat. "Shoot him." He urged Legolas. "Stick an arrow in his gob." Legolas drew an arrow from his quiver but a raised hand and a glower from Gandalf brought him to a halt.

"Save your pity and your mercy;" Saruman sneered. " I have no use for it!"

The traitor hefted his staff and a fireball suddenly shot forth. Boromir grabbed Pippin closer to him and urged his horseback. The flames engulfed Gandalf and Shadowfax. The fire vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. To Boromir's great relief and Saruman's disappointed surprise, Gandalf was unhurt.

Gandalf lifted his staff and pointed upward. "Saruman," he commanded, "your staff is broken."

The former White Wizard's staff shattered in his hand. Gimli cheered and Boromir shared a victorious grin with the Fellowship.

"That's that problem taken care of," Merry said, happily.

There was movement from above and Boromir saw a hunched figure approach from behind Saruman: Gríma Wormtongue.

"Gríma," Theoden called to him. "You need not follow him. You were not always as you are now. You were once a man of Rohan! Come down."

Gríma nodded and bowed to his King. Boromir doubted the wisdom of such mercy but would not interfere. This was his Liege Lord's decision.

"A man of Rohan?" Saruman ridiculed. "What is the house of Rohan but a thatched barn where brigands drink in the reek and rats roll on the floor with the dogs? Victory at Helms Deep does not belong to you, Théoden, horsemaster! You are a lesser son of greater sires."

Théoden ignored him, though Boromir could see the taunt about the victory had hit its mark.

"Gríma," Theoden offered once more. "Come down. Be free of him."

"Free?" Saruman spat. "He will never be free. Get down, cur!" Saruman slapped Gríma in the face and sent him to his knees.

"Saruman," Gandalf demanded. "You were deep in the enemy's counsel. Tell us what you know."

"Withdraw your guard," Saruman wheedled, "and I will tell you where your doom will be decided. I will not be held prisoner here."

About to protest trading freedom for lies, Boromir saw Grima get to his feet, a dagger in his hand. He lunged at Saruman's back and stabbed him savagely, quickly, twice. Legolas' loosed an arrow that struck Grima in the chest. He dropped, dead, even as Saruman staggered forward, dying. The Wizard toppled, falling a long way until, with a sickening thud, his body was impaled on a spike of the water wheel at the foot of the tower. The wheel turned slowly, carrying Saruman's body under the water. The black stone fell from the Wizard's sleeve. Boromir was distracted from that sight as Treebeard returned.

"The filth of Saruman is washing away," the Ent said. "Trees will come back to live here. Young trees, wild trees."

Suddenly, Pippin slid from Boromir's horse, attracted by the glowing orb in the water.

"No!" Boromir cried.

"Bless my bark!" Treebeard exclaimed.

Boromir swung his wounded leg stiffly over the saddle and jumped down beside the Hobbit. But, too late, Pippin had the thing in his hands, was staring into its depths. "Pippin!"

"Peregrin Took," Gandalf said, "I'll take that, my lad. Don't touch it, Boromir. Quickly now, Pippin!"

Boromir lowered the hand he had lifted to snatch the thing from Pippin's grasp, relieved as the Hobbit obeyed. Gandalf took it and covered it as one would hide something deadly.

"Pippin," Boromir said.

"Is he all right?" Merry demanded, startling Boromir a little. He had not seen him dismount. Aragorn stood just behind him. He met Boromir's gaze with equal worry.

"Pippin?" Boromir repeated. He lifted the Hobbit's chin, tilted his face up so he could check his eyes. Pippin seemed unaware of his presence for a moment, then blinked back to himself. He shuddered and Boromir drew him tight into his embrace, warming and reassuring. "It's gone, it's all right. I have you." He gently wiped cold sweat from his small friend's forehead.

"What is that thing?" Boromir demanded, afraid he already knew the answer.

Gimli and Legolas moved to stand close at his side. Boromir realised that, instinctively, The Fellowship had drawn together.

"It is a danger to us?" Theoden asked.

"Yes. Greatly so, for it is linked to Sauron," Gandalf explained, sending a new set of shudders through Pippin's small frame.

"I have seen such a stone before, " Boromir said in a broken whisper.

Gandalf's piercing blue eyes locked with his. "It is a Palantir," Gandalf said. "A Seeing Stone. They have been lost to the eyes of Man for a long time. We know the location of only two for certain. One here, and the other was at Minas Morgul. It is now in Sauron's grasp."

Shamed, Boromir broke the eye contact. "A third lies beneath my father's hands."

"Denethor!" Gandalf rumbled.

There followed a profound silence.

Still avoiding looking at his friends, Boromir said, "Come, Pippin, out of this wretched water." Gently, he lifted the Hobbit back onto his horse. He dared flick a glance to Gandalf. The White Wizard's expression showed no surprise for his confession. Rather, the blue eyes were dark with shared pain.

"The Eye sees all through the Stones," Gandalf said. "And its will twists the user's mind. It was such that corrupted Saruman, and by such means, I fell into his trap. I should have done more to investigate in Minas Tirith, also."

"There was nothing, _is_ nothing anyone can do." Stiff from his wounds, Boromir did not vault into the saddle in his usual manner, but instead put his booted foot into the stirrup.

Aragorn cleared his throat and gave him a look that said 'I will tend that wound later.'

Seated with Pippin before him, Boromir wrapped an arm about the Hobbit. Pippin turned and looked up at him, his face pale and drawn, his eyes shadowed with fear. "It's all right, Pippin," Boromir repeated. "I have you now. All will be well." That earned a faint smile that faded again almost immediately. Fresh anger flooded Boromir's veins as he saw the many faces of youngsters brutally slain in battle, the women and children of Minas Tirith weeping for their fathers and brothers. "I should have seen it sooner!" he snapped.

"Despair serves only the enemy's pleasure," Gandalf said with quiet sympathy, watching as Aragorn assisted a worried Merry to Brego's back. "It was my place to act."

"It is mine now!" Boromir growled. "I ride to Minas Tirith with all speed."

"And then?" Aragorn asked.

Together the Fellowship turned their horses about to leave the flood and begin the journey toward Edoras. Theoden and Gandalf's mounts fell into step at their side.

Boromir ran a hand through his hair. "I will tell them my father is not well. He must be placed under my care. I will see him locked away from wherever it is he holds the cursed stone." He heaved a weary sigh. "For all the good it will do us now."

Boromir felt Pippin tense. "I saw the Eye," Pippin blurted, half-whispering, half-defiant. "It cried, I see you, Halfling!"

Merry gasped and turned so sharply about to regard his friend that Aragorn had to steady him. "Pippin!" he cried.

"I'm all right, Merry," he assured. "It's gone now."

Everyone stared. Boromir groaned, his chest tight. He wrapped both arms about Pippin's shoulders in a hard but brief hug then let go. He would not demean his friend by clinging to him protectively before all those Pippin held in high regard.

"What did you see?" Gandalf asked, Shadowfax stepping close without his urging.

"A white tower and a dead tree," Pippin revealed shakily.

Boromir muttered a curse aimed at Denethor. He could feel Pippin trembling and cast an urgent glance to Aragorn who nodded understanding. They would make camp to tend him as soon as they were clear of the ruins and the already stinking bodies of Uruks and Orcs.

"Denethor's city," Gandalf explained as Pippin awaited his answer.

"_My_ city!" Boromir said coldly. "He has not ruled her in years, nor will he now!" He met Aragorn's eyes once more, pleased when the Man responded, unflinching.

"_Our_ people," Aragorn confirmed. "I would ride at your side, My Captain-General, My _Steward_ but needs must. I go in search of an army to defend Minas Tirith."

"Rohan will answer Gondor's call," Theoden said grimly, before Boromir could ask what Aragorn meant. "But many were lost or wounded at Helms Deep. Even if not, we would be too few against the might of Sauron's tens of thousands."

"How many?" Merry exclaimed as Boromir repeated, "Tens of thousands?"

"Yes," Theoden nodded sadly. "Ten thousand Uruk-hai stormed Helms Deep. Sauron will have matched Saruman's armies ten for one."

"One hundred thousand!" Boromir was cold through to the marrow, his stomach at his throat. He had commanded that they hold, and they had, again and again and again. For what? To be swamped by a flood they could not possibly weather?

"Maybe more," Gandalf said.

"You ride to Minas Tirith," Aragorn said. "Do what you can. There is yet hope. I go to marshal an army before which none can stand."

"I know of no such army," Boromir said.

"You have heard of them," Aragorn told him grimly. "They are named The Oath-Breakers."

"Ow," Pippin protested as Boromir's hands clamped reflexively tight about him.

"Sorry." Boromir eased his grip. That name had coursed through him with equals parts horror and hope. Aragorn had not moved his gaze from Boromir's eyes.

"You will need Narsil reforged," Boromir said, nodding sharp approval of Aragorn's courage.

"Yes, " Aragorn agreed. "Only the blade of Elendil will command them."

"That is my errand," Gandalf said. "I can travel with more speed than any of you."

"Good," Aragorn nodded. "I ride for the Paths of the Dead."

"The paths of the what?" Merry cried.

"The dead," Legolas answered. "Do not fear, Merry, for Gimli and I will be with him."

"We will? Umm, we will!" Gimli avowed. "This journey sounds ….. quiet."

Shadowfax threw his head, his great white mane flowing like billowing clouds on the breeze. He neighed in a manner unlike anything Boromir had heard.

Gandalf laughed and stroked the mighty neck affectionately. He looked to Boromir. "Shadowfax tells me that his path lies with you, Boromir. He can carry you with the speed of the wind to Minas Tirith. He will not tire but will run all the way. You may sleep safely atop his back, he will not let you fall."

"Then, I thank you, Lord Shadowfax." Boromir gave the horse his grateful regard, not at all surprised when the animal met his gaze with bright intelligence. "But I doubt I will find sleep."

"I'm coming with you," Pippin said, fierce and sure.

"Pippin—" Boromir began over Merry's identical protest.

"I'm the hot potato, here," Pippin said with all his usual cheek despite his repeated trembling. "Sauron thinks I have the Ring. That's what he wanted of me. I can draw him away from Frodo and Sam."

Subduing his urge to protect, Boromir met his small friend's upturned gaze and nodded. He squeezed his shoulder. "Good thinking. A brave plan."

"Such a course will also serve to draw the enemy away from Aragorn," Gandalf said. In the background, Merry looked wide-eyed back and forth, aghast at what he was hearing. "He seeks the High King as well as the Ring Bearer."

"Sauron sends his armies at Minas Tirith. Let us give him good cause to think of naught else," Boromir said. "I am proud to have you at my side, Peregrin Took. And you, Meriadoc Brandybuck, would serve me too, if you would stand for me with King Theoden."

"I can't go with you?" Merry said, worried, his gaze fixed on Pippin.

"Shadowfax will do well to carry two at speed," Gandalf said. "Even he cannot manage three for such an arduous journey."

Merry nodded reluctant acceptance as his gaze went to Boromir. "Take care of each other," he said, looking back and forth from he to Pippin. "I'll make sure to get some more of Treebeard's special water to carry to your Shield Brother."

"I would be grateful," Boromir said.

"I still have mine," Pippin offered.

"I would have you keep it," Boromir said. "It may be we will need it. We leave immediately. Merry will have time to get more."

"I will remind Treebeard of his promise to send more to Rohan and Gondor, also" Merry said.

"Ouch!" Boromir swallowed the mouthful of cheese, ham and bread he was eating. "Dammit, Aragorn!" He turned back from watching Merry and Pippin's huddle to glare down at his Healer friend.

"Will you stand still!" Kneeling at his side, Aragorn returned the glare with added measure. "How do you expect me to check this wound with you jumping all over the place?"

"I'm trying to keep an eye on Merry and Pippin," Boromir snapped.

"Do it later. I'm almost done. What by all the Valar have you been doing to this leg?"

"Sitting around having picnics."

Aragorn snorted. "Did these stitches get wet?"

Boromir looked down at him in disbelief. "I'll ignore that."

Aragorn avoided his gaze. "Some have pulled free, but the wound is closed enough it didn't tear open completely."

"I told you the water wouldn't be any good for those stitches," Pippin put in, walking over to them with Merry at his side. The two had said their farewells, and accepted the situation as seasoned soldiers must. Pippin smirked as he noted Boromir's trousers were down around his ankles. "Planning on running around naked again, Boromir?"

"Not until I get home," Boromir muttered.

"He almost drowned again," Merry said, joining them to watch proceedings.

Aragorn blinked up at him.

"Doesn't count," Boromir said. "My head never went under water."

"It would have if Treebeard hadn't ripped the roof open and hauled you out."

"The roof?" Aragorn asked in surprise.

"Boromir saved us when the Ents broke the dam," Pippin said cheerily.

"He carried us into the mill and when the water came up, he boosted us through a hole in the roof," Merry elaborated.

"But he wouldn't fit," Pippin finished taking a huge bite of cheese.

Aragorn stared at Boromir. Before he could pass any remark, Boromir reminded him, "I wasn't the only one swept away by a river, Oh My King."

"We've all had our share of perils," Legolas put in from the campfire. "We're all safe and together. Let us relax while we may."

Aragorn shook his head and returned to his work.

"There's no time for this," Boromir said impatiently.

"Do you want to be able to stand when you get to Minas Tirith, or not?" Aragorn demanded. "Keep still, dammit!"

"I'm not a sock, I don't need darning."

"If you'd treat my handiwork with more respect, perhaps I would not have to mend it so often."

Boromir flipped him off. "Can't you hurry it up?"

"No."

Merry leaned forward to peer more closely at Aragorn's work. "We cleaned it out with some of Treebeard's water," he told the other Man.

"It kept it from festering, at least," Aragorn said. "I'll just put some salve on it and bandage it. It doesn't need more stitches. If you keep it dry."

"I'm giving up drowning," Boromir said. "It's over-rated."

Aragorn huffed a laugh. "Good." He took some bandaging and rolled it about Boromir's thigh.

"All done?" Boromir said, already pulling up his trousers.

"What is it?" Aragorn asked, catching his sense of overwhelming urgency.

"Something," Boromir shook his head. "I cannot tell. Part of me feels like dancing and part of me wants to attack."

"Then we part ways for now," Aragorn said, standing. "But first, I have something of yours."

"What? Oh, the horn."

Boromir surprised Aragorn by making no jokes about the cumbersome object. He simply took it from him, silently, gravely.

They clasped forearms, then pulled each other into a hug. They stood back, gazes locked.

"I will return," Aragorn promised. "I will come in answer to the White City's need."

Boromir's right hand went to the horn slung once more at his hip. "I will call you home, My Brother."

With that he turned away, striding toward Shadowfax who waited patiently and calling Pippin to him.

With Legolas, Gimli and Gandalf standing at his side, Aragorn lay a hand to Merry's shoulder. The Fellowship parted once more. Aragorn prayed it would not be long until they would be together and safe with Frodo and Sam at their side.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15--- The Snare Closes

The giant doors closed at Faramir's back and the Hall of the Throne echoed hollowly as always, as empty as Denethor's heart. He sat on the lower throne, glowering, watching his approach.

'Wait for it….'

"You're late!"

Faramir never was, but it was the only greeting he ever received from his father. Even though Denethor had not seen him in long months and he returned from the front lines.

"My Lord," he said, inclining his head in the required gesture of respect. He gave the usual report, enemy numbers growing ever stronger, more outlying farms gone, the families butchered. He named them, one by one. He could have been talking about the weather. Denethor had had a meal laid before him, and he continued eating, uncaring. He knew Faramir had not seen such luxurious food in months, and had been summoned directly here. As usual.

Tired, grimy, Faramir looked forward to a long soak in a hot bath, to the meal Beth would have prepared especially for him, to seeing Liel and Elena and the others again. Beyond the dull haze of his exhaustion came a Sense of urgent warning. Something more was wrong, a building murderous chill. Faramir normally avoided studying his father's expression – it soured his stomach. But now, he did so, deliberately.

First contact with those eyes sent a shudder into the very marrow of his bones. Something else lurked behind those flat dark orbs. A sheer malevolence, a sharper cunning, a depth of cruelty. Death.

Red flecks glittered and gleamed in his father's narrowed eyes. A twisted smile thinned his lips. Sauron was watching, aware.

Shocked, Faramir gathered himself to reveal nothing of his discovery. He and Boromir – especially, Boromir – had been away too long. It was seven months since Faramir had spoken with his father, eight since Boromir had left for Imladris. Whatever else he had allowed himself to become, Denethor had always loved Boromir. That love was the only safety line to his sanity. Knowing, Sauron had plotted, finally convinced Denethor to send his beloved son far from him, to death or darkness.

"That is your full report, Captain?"

"It is, My Lord."

'Here it comes….'

"You have no captives to present to me? No news of strangers?"

"No, My Lord."

"Traitor!"

Faramir's chin came up, his jaw set. "I will never betray Gondor."

"You betray me!"

"Precisely my point," Faramir replied coldly, addressing the Other who listened.

"Osgiliath is fallen!"

"As you say." Faramir stopped short of saying, as you willed. At least he and the Rangers had arrived in time to command an orderly withdrawal that had saved most of the garrison. "Their numbers were too few, they were not supplied with –"

"You are a coward, Faramir! Retreat!" Denethor sneered. "Your brother won back the city and you let it go." He turned away, muttered, "Gondor's finest, Boromir, is dead. But if he were here…"

"If he is dead, it is your doing! You sent him away!"

"He is dead," Denethor repeated heavily, sitting down once more. Genuine grief washed some of the madness from his eyes. That only made Faramir all the more angry.

"He would have been here to lead his people but for you!"

"I saw him fall," Denethor said. "As did you. You found his shield in the river. I know. Do not deny it."

Faramir stood silent. So, Sauron knew of that, too. Faramir was all the more certain Denethor had long ago found one of the ancient Stones. The Stone of Minas Ithil was in Sauron's possession, and as it had commanded all the other Stones, Sauron now commanded his father.

There was no point in saying anything. He would keep the secret of Boromir's survival, else Sauron would return to hunting him down. Badly wounded, Boromir was in no state to defend himself.

Denethor continued to mutter. Faramir wondered if his father would drift off into unawareness of his presence as had often happened during these reports in the past.

But suddenly, Denethor cleared his throat. He gathered his robes, pulled back his sleeves and resumed eating. "You have new orders, Captain," he said, lifting his head to again regard Faramir coldly. "If you have the courage to carry them out."

"My Lord."

"You are to retake Osgiliath immediately. The Tower Guard has been called out and await you to lead them across the Pelennor."

Faramir shook his head in disgust. "So that is the enemy's plan."

"Much must be risked in war."

"You would murder two hundred of Gondor's finest knights. You would make certain of Sauron's victory. Secure the death of all our people." Faramir continued over Denethor's bellows of outrage.

The foresworn Steward strode furiously toward him again, his arm lifted as if to strike. But that he would not dare. It had been years since the last time. Faramir smiled grim satisfaction at the memory of that moment of victory.

"You will obey your Steward!" Spittle flew from Denethor's contorted lips.

Faramir stood tall, met his father's eyes. "My Steward is not here."

"I am your Steward and I command you to fight! Retake Osgiliath!"

"No."

Faramir took a step forward, then another, and another, forcing Denethor back. "I will order the Guardsmen to stand down. They go nowhere. We prepare to defend Minas Tirith."

"You dare countermand me?"

Faramir began to turn away, saw Denethor give a leering smile. Warning screamed through him. Denethor sat, lifted a lazy hand in signal to someone in hiding.

A door to one side of the Hall opened. A woman stumbled inside, pushed into the room by black hooded guards. She clutched a small bundle in her arms.

"Liel!" Faramir's cry was a whisper of shock.

Aglariel, The Princess Sovereign of Osgiliath, Boromir's wife, so disheveled, so distressed, so utterly furious, that she was barely recognizable. She wore only a stained bed robe, and the bundle in her arms, surely it could not be – a baby?

"Meet my granddaughter," Denethor said with evident self-satisfaction.

Faramir whirled back to him. "You bastard!"

"Have a civil tongue, Faramir, if you care for your brother's whore."

Faramir stood silent, shaking with the force of his rage.

"Tell me now of the Halflings you held. Where are they?"

Faramir said nothing.

"Your disloyalty and cowardice leave me no choice."

"Your fawning service to the enemy leaves you no choice!" Faramir corrected with a snarl, his fist tight about the hilt of his sword.

"Drop your weapon," Denethor demanded. "Quickly."

One of the guards held a knife to Liel's throat, and Faramir realised it had been at her back before. He obeyed.

"And the other knives. All of them."

Faramir let them fall, clattering to the tiles.

"Good. We will soon have the truth from you." Denethor nodded to his henchmen. "Take him away."

Faramir stood unresisting as he was chained. He thought he might yet have a chance to use those same chains as weapons, break free well beyond reach of immediate retaliation, circle back and aid Liel and the infant. Then, he was struck hard across the shoulders, driven to his knees. He was struck again, to the back of the head, and was unconscious before he hit the floor.

SCENE BREAK

"Faramir?"

Liel's voice, anxious, concerned.

He lay sprawled on the cold rock floor of his cell, chained at wrists and ankles. His aching, battered head and shoulders were warm, comfortably cradled on Liel's lap. How long had she been here? They could only have brought her down sometime after the last time he lost consciousness under torture. Her fingers stroked his face, carefully avoiding the worst injuries. Her other hand held his, squeezing softly, tapping on the inside of his palm.

Code. Warning.

"Can you hear me?"

He struggled to open his eyes, succeeded with the right eye, opening a crack. The left throbbed pain, was closed over, swollen shut. He'd been struck there more than once, but his ribs hurt more. As did his gut. And he wasn't even going to think about his feet.

"It's all right. We're alone."

That was a lie, her fingers tapping the truth. _'They're listening.'_

She was using the Ranger cipher they had developed over the years. The enemy hoped that in apparently private conversation, he might reveal something that torture had been unable to force from him.

He twitched his fingers in response. _'Understood. _'

He felt her breathe relief. She had no doubt feared he would wake delirious and give away vital information. Just as Denethor and his henchmen were hoping. The more direct approach had failed.

"We know you captured the Halflings. We know they carry the Ring."

He had denied that, laughed at them, been beaten.

"Where are they now? Where have you hidden them? What have you done with the Ring?'

Over and over and over again….

Finally, he thought at least he had made them doubt. Certainly, they knew he did not have the Ring. Sauron would have known that much.

"Faramir? You must be thirsty. There is water. Here."

He tried to sit up, bit down against pain.

"Stay there." Liel steadied him. "I can reach it."

"The baby?"

"Denethor has her." There was a quaver in her voice, fear or fury or both. Whatever, it meant Denethor was surely dead if she got her chance. If Faramir did not get there first.

She filled and held a ladle of water to his split lips. He swallowed painfully, thirstily.

"Does…. Did Boromir know?"

She shook her head, tears filming her eyes.

Faramir squeezed her hand hard, his over hers as she fed him the water. He tapped out, '_He lives._'

Her arm tightened about his ribs hard enough that he flinched. Overwhelmingly relieved, she did not realize she was hurting him. Her chest lifted in a sharp intake of breath, fighting for control. She went rigid, bracing, refusing to give their captors the satisfaction of losing her composure. But he could feel the trembling that was not visible. More importantly, together they must continue the deception. With the enemy believing Boromir dead, he would be safe from their hunters.

"Did they hurt you?" Faramir squinted up at her, straightened a little. His vision blurred in and out of focus, but he could see bruising on her face, was not sure if there was more than there had been before.

"No. They need me to keep my daughter alive."

"A niece!" Sudden joy flared and Faramir felt his lips bleed with the force of his grin. His mouth hurt, his jaw ached, and he cared not a whit. Boromir was alive! His brother was a father and he was an uncle. Somehow, they would win.

Liel smiled and kissed his brow. "You're an uncle," she confirmed.

"What's her name?"

"I named her for those I love best. Liramir."

"Beautiful jewel." He translated into the Western tongue they had been speaking for the benefit of their captors. "Boromir's Men? The Tower Guard, are they… ?"

"Safe, for tonight, at least. Like you, Captain Aradan refused to take them to their useless deaths."

"Good for him!"

"He's been arrested, too. They're holding him somewhere down here."

Faramir cursed under his breath. "Where's here?"

"A maze of tunnels and corridors and cells behind Denethor's private wine cellars. I never knew of it before. Denethor himself doesn't seem to know how to reach it."

"Good." Faramir would murder the traitor if he saw him again. As for the dungeon maze, it was telling that even Liel's agents did not know of it. They had their own hidden accesses to various points throughout the city. It was the route by which information and special urgent supplies were sometimes sent to him. "It's night?"

"Just after sunset. Why are they torturing you? What do they want to know?"

Faramir knew she was both steering the conversation into safer emotional territory as well as setting the stage for him to set the trap she hoped he would have.

"Denethor is raving about Halflings," she continued. "Is it true you had them prisoner?"

'_All right?'_

"Yes." He tapped. _'Go on.'_ He could lead them wherever he chose from here.

"What possible interest are Halflings to Denethor?"

"He thinks they carry Isildur's Bane."

"As you dreamed before you and Boromir left to reclaim Osgiliath?"

He nodded. "I did not ask them if they had it. I did not want to know. It is an evil thing. If I saw it by the wayside I would leave it lie."

That would be exactly what his father would expect him to say. Faramir well knew such would be near impossible. He had felt the cunning and power of the Ring's call. Its temptation was undeniable. He could not imagine how Boromir had resisted so long. That knowledge made him smile despite his shivering at the memory of that Thing, gleaming at him, taunting him, so tantalizing, so close on its chain about Frodo's throat.

He forced that image away, drew instead on the memory of the Hobbits' telling of Boromir making himself an island of refuge, using the arrow that had wounded him to save his small friend in the river, to rescue the quest.

"You're cold?"

"A little. I was thinking how glad I was to see the last of them. What are we come to that Gondor can no longer protect such innocents? I sent them away from us. If they indeed carry this thing of Sauron's it must leave our borders. They told me little, but they mentioned the sea, the Elves. They went south. I told them to stay by the river, as far from the enemy as possible."

There was a silence in which he simply lay trying to steady himself. He needed to get the pain under control so he could think what else he might do to confound the enemy. Realizing that, she resumed massaging gently, easing the taut muscles in his shoulders.

"What did they do to your feet?"

He blinked back to the present, glanced down at his broken, swollen toes, his bruised and bloodied feet.

"Oh," he shrugged, she was doing good work on those muscles. "I kicked them."

"Good." She smiled savagely. "I bit them."

He snorted, then remembered the baby and didn't find it in the least amusing. "How old is my niece?" He loved being able to say that.

She frowned, trying to figure it. "I've lost track. Two days? Three? I'm not sure how many times they've taken me to her for feeding."

Faramir groaned under his breath. That soon, they had dragged them from the birthing bed. He would hurt those bastards again, somehow, chains or no.

"Don't."

She had read his intent, as ever. She always could, from the first moment she had laid eyes on him as a child. He merely grinned in return. She sighed.

"There was no time. I could not get a message out." She tapped out the signal for not true.

There was yet hope, then. And danger. Garad would charge in to the rescue, after all he was already looking for the faintest excuse. Faramir had all but had to tie him down to get him to stay in the first place. Fortunately, Elena would make sure he didn't try to come in through the main gates. That gave Faramir cause to smile.

"What?"

"I am glad the Halflings are far gone. They will be safe with the Elves, and The Ring will be gone beyond Sauron's grasp at last." If only that were true, but there was no place beyond reach of such insidious evil.

She nodded, looking at him quizzically. She knew that was not the real reason, for his smile. So he added, truthfully. "And did I mention, I have a niece?" His smile broadened so wide and so painfully that he had to lick away the blood.

Liel mussed his dirty hair affectionately. "You will spoil her rotten."

She suddenly looked sad and he remembered they needed to continue the lie of Boromir's death. He managed to rearrange his features into sorrow. The pain helped.

"Someone must." He added, "I will give her a pony!"

Liel turned her laugh into a sob. She raised an eyebrow at him. "It won't fit in the cradle."

There was a scrabbling noise beyond the door, the sound of someone heavy getting to his feet. They could hear keys jingling. Faramir tensed despite himself.

Liel squeezed his arm. "Probably just time to take me back to Liramir for feeding."

The massive sallow-faced guard opened the iron door and clomped toward them.

Faramir sneered up at his torturer.

"How's the weather up there?" He would have said something far more insulting but for the need to protect Liel.

"Funny. I laugh, you scream." He bent and reached to haul Liel up by her arm.

"Don't touch me." She pushed him off.

"Be nice, or your brat starves."

"Shall I tell Denethor you want his grandchild dead, then?" Liel said sweetly, getting to her feet.

"Out." He handed her off to someone Faramir could not see just outside the door. "As for you," he leered down at Faramir, "You've been so chatty let's see what you have to say to me." He turned about, called, "Is it ready?"

A deep, grumbling voice answered. "Almost."

"You bastards," Liel snarled from outside. "Use that on him and you're dead!"

The only reply was a snickering laugh.

"I'll kill you and I won't be quick. It will be worse than …." Her threats faded into the distance.

Faramir would have cheered but for his mouth suddenly gone dry and his throat tight. Again, he drew on the memory of Boromir's courage under torture while captive of the Haradrim. He would endure, as his brother had, and he would triumph in the end.

"Your bath is ready, My Lord."

The other Man had entered, gave a mocking bow as he set down a small black metal pot. Water hissed, steaming and bubbling about its rim. In his other hand he carried a ladle….


	16. Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN -- Boromir's Return

Garad's horse side-stepped and danced a few steps before he reacted to calm it.

"Easy, fella. Steady." He stroked the animal's neck and it immediately calmed. He wished he could say the same for himself. Damrod and Ciran who rode at his side, gave him wry looks but barely raised a smile. None of them had it in them. Garad's horse was picking up on his tension, expecting attack in what it read from the tautness of his muscles.

'Think of something else. Yeah, right, not bloody likely.'

Faramir was in trouble, he sensed it with every fibre of his being. And that did not require the kind of special bond his Captain shared with his big brother, no, this was simple logical deduction. He had received a message from Elena that Faramir had been arrested and that Her Grace of Osgiliath was missing. They did not know where Faramir was being held, but were searching for them both.

'Dammit! I should never have let him go in alone!'

He sighed heavily. Faramir had been right, there had been little other choice. Denethor had timed his strike with his usual cunning accuracy. Osgiliath had fallen two days ago. By rights, Faramir should have been with his command. But no, he was needed urgently, under direct order, to report to his father. Denethor had learned of the Halflings' presence, Garad was certain of it. And Faramir would be made to pay the price for protecting them.

'Not if we have anything to do with it,' Garad vowed silently. He, Ciran and Damrod would get Faramir free. Somehow. Their first priority was stay alive long enough to complete the task. That meant approaching Minas Tirith from the West, rather than the usual East, where Denethor's henchmen would be expecting them. Elena and the Giliath would be waiting in the chosen place, ready to haul them over the wall. That thought did give Garad pause to smile – it would be good to see her again, lecture and all.

Something ahead caught Garad's eye. A moving blur of white, rapidly coming closer, down the foothills that flanked the road north to Edoras. A rider? But surely no horse could keep up such a pace if they had come from so far.

"There's someone up there," Garad reported. He was often teased for having what everyone else called 'The Eyes of An Elf.' The others had not yet seen the rider.

"Get under cover, and we'll – "

He stopped, a sudden elation shocking through him. He shook himself, startled by the feeling. 'What the – ?"

The white horse moved like no other Garad had ever seen, its gait so smooth that its hooves appeared not to touch the ground and it left no dust cloud in its wake. It ran at a full gallop, moving faster than Garad would have believed possible, continued running at break-neck speed all the way down the rough hillside.

Garad squinted at it, there was something familiar about the rider. His shoulder-length fair hair was pulled back by the speed of his passage, his cloak, an odd shimmering grey, flapped behind him. Silver light reflected in a brilliant flash from the sword hilt at his hip and in a flare of green from the cloak clasp at his throat. Garad's pulse leapt, racing. The tunic sleeves beneath the leather surcote were crimson above unusual elbow length mail sleeves.

"It cannot be," he whispered, leaning forward over his horse's neck, perilously unbalanced, straining to see the rider clearly.

He rode bareback, and like a man possessed.

He rode like Boromir.

Was this another apparition? A death vision? That was no ordinary horse, that much was certain.

"Boromir," he pleaded aloud, anguished. "Don't be dead, please, don't be dead. Please don't be coming for Faramir…."

Tears stung his eyes and he blinked them angrily away for they blurred his sight. Then he heard it, carried by the wind that suddenly veered about, and came direct at him.

"Garad! Garad!" And a whoop of joy.

That was no ghost!

"Boromir!"

Garad returned the whoop, startling his friends. Sitting back down in the saddle, he kicked his horse into a gallop and charged ahead of them, tears streaming down his face. The white horse closed on him with supernatural speed. Garad's horse skidded to a halt without his signal, apparently obeying the white stallion who whickered in greeting. It stopped, dropping from a dead run to a standstill in a heartbeat without a jolt, not even breathing hard. It carried no saddle, wore no bridle.

Boromir was short of breath as if he'd run a race, grinning fit to burst, but unable to speak. They stared at one another. Garad reached out and took Boromir's forearm. His Captain-General returned the warrior's greeting. Then Boromir laughed, amused apparently by Garad's wordless, astonished expression. There was a great, yellowing bruise high on his cheek and a bloodied rent in his right sleeve. More recent blood stained his thigh.

Garad, who was again wondering about apparitions, was reassured by that, and by the laughter and the dirt and grime thick on his friend's sweat-streaked face. He looked utterly exhausted, a man who moved now only on desperate need. He knew then. But, of course he would. Boromir always knew when his brother needed him.

Boromir laughed again and shook Garad's shoulder hard with his free hand. He pulled Garad into a hug, held him a moment, then let go, still grinning like a loon.

"Garad, speechless! Faramir should see this!"

Garad tried to say something, realized he was on the point of weeping like a child, and felt embarrassment burn through him. He had been drinking in the sight of his returned friend and commander like a man dying of thirst. He forced his eyes from Boromir down to his mount, and said, "Where did you find that horse?"

"This is Shadowfax, Lord of the Mearas, " Boromir said, respectfully. The horse bowed its head, its magnificent white mane rifling in the breeze.

"The…?" Garad stared, swallowing hard. "I thought that was just a story."

"No. Gandalf introduced us." Boromir snorted amusement as Garad's jaw dropped another notch.

"Where did you come from?" Garad demanded. "I know you weren't in Ithilien, and you can't possibly have come from Edoras, not in the time since…." He trailed off, not wanting to remember the river, and the despair he and Faramir had shared.

The delighted whooping and hollering of his companions drowned out Boromir's beginning explanation. Ciran and Damrod reined in, surrounding Boromir and slapping him on the back. Their Captain-General radiated joy and they basked in the miracle of his safe return after so long away.

In all the commotion, Garad noticed small hands at Boromir's waist and a dust-covered face framed by unruly curls peeking out from beneath Boromir's cloak. The wind of their rapid ride had thrown it about him and hidden him from immediate view. At first, Garad thought it a child, another orphaned urchin Boromir had rescued from somewhere. Then he realized….

"A Hobbit!" Garad exclaimed.

"You know –" the Halfing said at the same moment Boromir turned sharply back to him and said, "How do you --?"

"Frodo and Sam," Garad replied.

"You've seen them?" The Hobbit's green eyes grew even bigger and brighter amid the grime on his face.

"Yes," Garad nodded, giving him a swift glance before meeting Boromir's suddenly tense gaze.

"Faramir went with them?" Boromir asked, worried.

"No, he's in Minas Tirith, he –"

"Frodo and Sam are in the city?" Boromir demanded, alarmed now.

"No. They're on their way again. To Mordor." Boromir sagged in relief and started breathing again. Garad added, "Faramir supplied them as best we could. They insisted they must go alone, though how they will manage…." He ended by shaking his head.

The Hobbit hugged Boromir from behind and said happily, "They're alive, Boromir! They're all right!"

Boromir found a smile and patted his companion's arm. "This is my good friend, Pippin," he introduced.

"Hello, and well met," Garad said with a smile. "This is Ciran, and the other rogue is Damrod. I'm –"

"Garad," Pippin said cheerfully, grinning at him in a way that somehow boosted his confidence for the task ahead. "We've heard all about you."

Garad laughed. "And I you! Where's Merry?"

"With Theoden in Edoras," Boromir said. "We parted at Isengard."

"You have ridden far! And bareback, you must ache from head to toe."

"I have urgent business with my father," Boromir said grimly. The great white horse moved forward at a trot, heading again for the city and Garad's mount followed.

"You return to Ithilien to report to Faramir?" Boromir asked. "Is he all right? I thought I felt… something, something wrong."

Garad traded grave looks with Ciran and Damrod. "We ride from Ithilien. We dare not enter the city through the main gates. Boromir…." He drew a great breath, and met his friend's tired eyes. " Osgiliath is fallen. Two days ago."

Boromir nodded sadly. "We always knew it must. You all have done well to hold so long."

"It swarms with Orcs, tens of thousands of them," Garad told him. "Battle comes and thanks to Denethor, the city is not ready. He holds Faramir under arrest."

"What?" Boromir hissed. "He dares!" He gripped hard at his sword hilt, lifted it a little, then resettled it without noticing what he'd done. "He knows then."

"About Frodo and Sam? Yes."

"How much?"

Garad sighed. "Little, only that we captured two Halflings and let them go. He had issued a new decree, all travellers found within Gondor's borders are to be delivered to him."

Boromir shook his head. "Come with me, we ride to the gates. Let them dare try to stop us. I feel the need to chop a few heads."

They galloped a half mile, rounding the north west hills until the Pelennor came fully into view. A great cloud of dust rose from the plain, billowing about the army marching there. It seemed most of Gondor's ranks had emptied from the city. At the lead rode the knights of the Tower Guard, resplendent in black and silver.

"What the fuck?" Garad said. "Where do they think they're going?"

"They're heading for Osgiliath," Boromir growled. "My father wants them dead."

Garad looked at him, struck by the stern set of his features, and pleased beyond measure that he had returned at this moment. "So, we stop them."

They turned their horses about and urged them to greater speed for all their weariness. Boromir's white horse outpaced them within a moment. Frustrated, Garad could only watch as Boromir reined in before the front rank of knights and a great cheer went up from every man present as they realized the miracle before them/

"Boromir! Boromir! Boromir!"

Garad turned and grinned at Damrod and Ciran who rode flat out at his side, their hair whipping about their faces. They were grinning, too, waiting as did he for the cheer to be turned about as always, following Boromir's lead. Then it came:

"Gondor! Gondor! Gondor!"

Breathlessly, Garad pulled his horse to a stop beside Boromir, glad he had arrived in time to witness the private exchange between Gondor's Captain-General and the commander of troops from Minas Tirith Legion. Boromir drew the man aside, close to him, and Garad blinked. It was not the old greying, capable and experienced Captain Aradan but a youngster with a wisp of beginning beard. He prayed Aradan was alive; Elena would know where he was being held if he was not in the Houses of Healing, taken by some mysterious, sudden illness or accident.

Garad studied the ranks, saw none had been overlooked by Denethor's suicidal order. They were all here – the black and silver armoured knights of the Tower Guard, Boromir's own men, all two hundred, looking torn between delight and chagrin at being caught out in utter folly. Behind them marched two battalions of infantry, their slow pace gaining the time that had saved the knights from a headlong charge into slaughter.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Boromir demanded furiously.

Red –faced, the youngster replied. "Obeying orders, sir."

"To go kill yourselves?" Boromir snarled.

"No, sir," the youngster flinched. "We are to rescue the Ithilien Rangers," he flicked a nervous glance to Garad, "and thus give Lord Faramir hope that he might live."

"Excuse me?" Garad demanded. "You're gonna rescue us?"

Boromir hissed murderously. "Explain!"

"Sir! The Steward tells us that the Lord Faramir has been wounded, and that well, ahhh, we were told that you are dead, and your brother, grieving, will not recover."

"As you see, I am alive," Boromir said, colder than death. "That is the first lie. Faramir's condition is the second, and the Rangers, the third."

"We know that we cannot retake Osgiliath, for all the Steward's desire, "the youngster said stiffly. "However, we did hope to lessen the enemy numbers before they storm the walls of the city. Sir."

"A brave sentiment. But Minas Tirith needs you and all your companions, alive, to defend her. You ride back there, on order of your Captain General." The growl of his voice broke to a bark that made even Garad wince. "Now!"

"Yes, sir!" The Boy saluted crisply and turned away to his task.

"What a load of shit," Garad said. "So that's how he's explaining Faramir's absence."

Boromir's eyes were suddenly distant, searching, Garad knew, for his brother's presence. He did not have the knack of it as did Faramir, but something made him shudder like a Man doused with ice water.

"'Mir?" he whispered and his green eyes snapped back into focus, desperate, afraid. "No!"

Shadowfax lunged and was gone, flying forward as if shot from a ballista. Boromir galloped toward the city gates, scattering the ranks that were reforming to obey the new orders.

Ciran and Damrod looked urgently toward Garad.

"They're killing Faramir! Move!"

++++ SCENE BREAK

'They're trying to close the gates on me!'

Boromir could scarce believe it. He had bellowed his name, though any green recruit would recognize him. No, this was his father's order, his father's lackeys. All the loyal men had been sent to the slaughter, or killed already. All the better for him, for he would not have to stay his hand this time.

He drew his sword, held it ready, told Pippin, "Keep down!"

"Go, Shadowfax!" he urged, saying it only from force of habit. He knew the Lord of the Mearas would not fail him. The towering wrought iron gates with their elaborate sculptures drew closer, closer, swinging ponderously inward, carrying shadow, blotting out the light of the square ahead. He could see little, but thought there might be a small crowd milling there. More fool they, to get between him and his brother now.

Boromir resisted the urge to shut his eyes. It appeared they would smash into the solid barrier, the gap between the gates was growing too small. He focused on the light ahead, felt cold iron brush against his legs and booted feet. Then he was through, daylight bright on his upraised sword and glinting off the cobbles of the open square.

The onlookers scattered, the henchmen who had been working the gate mechanism scrambling to get out of his way. Shadowfax plunged onward, and Boromir knew the horse would not tire, but would carry him all the way to the seventh level. A path formed as the crowd parted, the cheers of some of them dim in his ears, drowned out by a maelstrom of shared terror and hammering fury.

"Boromir!"

'Faramir!' His brother's voice rang with exhilaration. But where was he – ?

Boromir gasped, shock riveting through his gut as his searching gaze found Faramir, his dirty, bare feet scrabbling for purchase atop a teetering pile of old crates stacked high upon a raised gallows. A hangman's noose coiled tight about his throat, and the only thing recognizable of his bruised and bloodied face was his flashing grin. He struggled to keep his balance, awkward, his hands bound behind his back.

A movement of black shifted into Boromir's focus, became the leering face of the executioner. Boromir knew he'd never reach Faramir in time.

The executioner shoved the crates, sending them flying.

"No!" Boromir bellowed, blood roaring in his ears.

Faramir fell.

The rope jerked with a sickening creak, straining with his weight, choking him. He swung wildly, legs and feet kicking, making him spin.

Boromir heard himself scream like a madman even as Shadowfax gathered under him, his powerful muscles bunching. Then they were flying, Pippin crying out, his fingers digging hard into Boromir's side.

Hooves clattered on wooden boards, Shadowfax landing as smoothly as he had jumped. Ducking, Boromir barely avoided Faramir's thrashing legs, his brother's brutalized feet striking through the air an inch away from his face.

By some miracle, Shadowfax kept him on his back. Clutching the white mane with his left hand, Boromir stretched up with the sword, Shadowfax following him to rear high, allowing him to slice clean through the thick, taut rope above his brother's head. Shadowfax brought them back down to the gallows' platform, lending his aid to the thrust of Boromir's sword as he drove it hard into the executioner's retreating back.

Letting go of the sword, he fell more than jumped from Shadowfax, catching Faramir as his brother cried out in agony from his feet slamming into the rough planks of the gallows. Boromir's wounded leg begged to buckle beneath the impact of its landing and the burden of Faramir's weight, but he refused it, driven by the sound of Faramir's desperate, squealing wheeze. The thick rope was still choking him.

Holding Faramir to him with one arm, Boromir reached up with the other, found the noose. His fingers dug deep into abraded flesh, tugged at the knot at the back of his brother's head. Free of its burden it loosened as easily as it had tightened. The noose fell slack, sliding down about Faramir's bare shoulders and he gasped, a great, gulping, agonized, inhalation.

"I have you," Boromir said, the reassurance he meant to give stuttered by his dry mouth. He brought his arm back around his brother, feeling the archer's muscles in Faramir's back and chest bunching with his effort to expand his chest, heard the hiss of air finally dragged into tortured lungs. He drew his own sobbing breath of relief as he felt the wheezing exhalation, then a second breath, and a third. Faramir trembled in his grasp, shaking from head to toe. Boromir shook with him, broken. Had he been even a moment later….

He screwed his eyes tight over his tears but the image remained, taunting him: Faramir's dead body, swinging, twisting, turning at the end of the rope, the silence, the creaking strain loud in the emptiness, and Faramir's swollen face sightless, staring accusingly at him.

Boromir shuddered and Faramir's head came to rest against his shoulder, a gesture of reassurance, steadying him, giving him strength even in this moment, as he always had.

Then Faramir twisted in his grasp, trying to say something, managing only strangled coughing. Then his bound hands pushed up, bumping against the arm Boromir clutched around his waist.

Of course! He wanted his hands free. Boromir let go of his desperate hold with his right hand only, pulling his dirk from the sheath at his belt to quickly but carefully cut through the cruelly tight bonds.

Faramir tried to return Boromir's embrace, but his arms would not obey him. Nor would his hands serve him to lift the noose still hanging around him, for they were swollen red and black, and more than one of their fingers were frozen at an unnatural angle. Quickly sheathing the dirk, Boromir lifted the noose for him, careful to keep the repulsive thing from touching Faramir's head and neck, before flinging it away

Faramir's head came to rest on his shoulder once again, and this time, his brother forced his arms to obey his will, clutching Boromir tightly, elbows and wrists holding where fingers could not.

"It's all right," Boromir told him. "I'm here now."

Faramir lifted his head, and to Boromir's shock was grinning at him through torn and bloodied lips, absolutely radiant with joy. One eye was swollen shut, and the rest of his face was a patchwork of cuts and bruising of every hue, but he was still grinning, happier than Boromir had ever seen him.

"I'm never letting you out of my sight again!" Boromir promised, half-sobbing. Other sounds came to his ears now, Shadowfax' s teeth snapping, his hooves thundering an ominous warning tattoo on the wooden boards, rear legs kicking out in a repeated dancing threat. Close at Boromir's side stood Pippin, sword in hand, snarling, "Stay back!"

Boromir smiled savagely. Between them, Horse and Hobbit made as strong a shieldwall as any he could have wished for, and he needed the protection they offered, for Faramir's Faramir's arms, chest, and back were all ice against Boromir's warmth.

Kicking a crate from its narrow end to its width, Boromir steadied it with his foot before lowering Faramir to sit on it. Unclasping his cloak, he secured the sharp pin of the brooch on one edge alone before throwing it around his shivering brother. Boromir could sense Faramir's self-annoyance, his battle to regain control of his body's battered senses, to overcome its instinctive shocked reaction.

"It's all right,' Boromir told him. "It's all right. I have you now. Take it slow. "

"M-must—" Faramir wheezed then coughed harshly. He shook his head violently, pulling away from Boromir's helping hands, trying to say something. Faramir shoved at him with a shoulder, trying to get him moving toward the gallows' steps.

Then the hum of arrows surrounded them. Cursing, Boromir put himself behind Faramir, leaning over his back, pushing him down as much as he dared

"Pippin!" Boromir cried, reaching out to pull the Hobbit next to Faramir to cover them both, until he realized none of the continuing volleys were coming anywhere near them. All about the square, henchmen were dropping, impaled by green-fletched arrows. Liel and the Giliath!

Boromir stood, looked for her, saw cloaked figures at the borders of the square and on the rooftops and wall above. He spotted Elena, Liel's First Companion, but still could not see her Lady among the other archers. They should have been together….

"Friends!" he heard Garad bellow, a loud clatter of hooves showering sparks from the cobblestones as Faramir's Men arrived through the narrow gap of the gates. They hunkered low on their saddles, avoiding the flying arrows.

"Liel!" Boromir shouted, scanning the rooftops. Where was she? She should here, leading her Loyalists. He swung about, urgently studying the other approaches but there was no sign of her. All the enemy were dead or being bound and herded into a group by the Giliath. She should have arrived at Faramir's side by now. Boromir's heart sank like a sour sickness to the pit of his stomach. She couldn't be dead….

The terror that had never quite faded rose in him again, and he wondered if Faramir's impending death was the only one he had felt. "Liel!"

Faramir grabbed at him clumsily, his gaze locking with Boromir's. He shook his head, managing to croak, "Alive."

The effort cost him, sending him into another fit of coughing, the spasms jolting through his suffering body. The marks of torture were in ugly evidence all over him, chest, arms, hands, all burned, cut, beaten bloody, darkly swollen and bruised. Boromir wanted to weep and murder in equal measure.

He heard a hated voice fouling the air, and murder won out.

"My Firstborn! You have come back to me!"

Denethor said more, but Boromir was no longer listening, could no longer hear for the roaring and thudding of blood fury in his ears.

"Denethor," he snarled.

Flanked by Faramir's angry rangers and covered by Liel's archers, his father waddled closer. Garad stepped into Denethor's path, his teeth flashing like a wolf going for its kill.

"He's mine!" Boromir bellowed.

Garad stopped in mid-swing, the powerful body straining with the conflicting need to honour Boromir's greater right and his perfectly reasonable desire to tear Denethor to pieces. Boromir saw Elena appear like smoke on the wind, as she always did. One small hand on the Blacksmith's corded arm was enough to break the impasse. Lowering his fist, Garad stepped aside.

"Boromir!" Denethor called, as if nothing had happened. "My son!"

Shaking with rage, he pulled his lips back from his teeth in a feral imitation of a welcoming smile. The creature that was his father, unaware it was his death he saw, leered a smile in return. Did he not care that the son and brother he had just tried to murder sat bleeding on the gallows at Boromir's side? Boromir's fists clenched so hard they hurt. The old man babbled something at him.

Boromir could not hear it, could hear only Faramir's continued tortured coughing and choking as he struggled to speak. Boromir returned all his attention to his brother as Faramir bent double, hacking and rasping with the strain on his throat.

Boromir lifted his hand, intending to rub his brother's back, then remembering, hesitated. There could not be a place that was not burned or wounded. Some small part of his attention registered the footsteps climbing closer, and he knew the moment he had delayed too long had at last arrived.

"Steady, steady," Boromir crooned to Faramir, carefully, gently, resting his hand on top of his brother's head. His hand was steady now, his rage gone to ice. "It's over. He won't hurt you again. It ends here. Now." His voice sounded strange, unrecognizable as his own, as he watched his hand stroke his brother's blood-matted hair and waited.

Faramir looked up at him through streaming, bloodshot eyes. The pressure of the hanging had done that, ruptured the small blood vessels. Boromir had seen it on the faces of dead men, hanged men before. Faramir shook his head, angry apparently, that Boromir was not understanding what he was trying so hard to convey. Dark blood oozed from his split lips, crimson against so pale, so bruised and battered a face.

"It's all right," Boromir assured him. "I will take of it."

"Boromir! My beloved – "

Boromir's right arm shot out as he pivoted, and his fist closed about Denethor's throat. The hysterical words ended in an abrupt, gargling gasp. Boromir's face hurt with the force of his contorted fury. Boromir saw the sure promise of death wash surprise from Denethor's eyes.

With great satisfaction, Boromir slowly, cruelly, tightened his fingers, feeling the fragile windpipe beneath the clammy, flesh. So very, very vulnerable….

A rope noose could snap the neck and kill a man in an instant. If they had not wanted Faramir to suffer slow strangulation after forcing him to watch his men ride out to their useless deaths….

Boromir's sight went red. His fingers trembled, his entire arm shook with the effort of restraint. 'Slowly….'

"Now," he told Denethor, holding him on tiptoe. "You will know what it is to strangle to death. To slowly die….straining for every breath…."

Denethor's eyes bulged and his weight came down on Boromir's arm as he crumpled to his knees. Boromir went with him, not releasing the vice a fraction, seeing his brother's bare feet kicking frantically in mid-air, hearing the hideous sound of the rope creaking, straining, Faramir strangling….

Faramir's clumsy, cold hand tugged at Boromir's arm, then both of his hands did. Boromir shook his head.

"Not this time! This time, he dies!"

Faramir struggled to speak, coughed a little. Then, controlling the spasm, he spoke.

"Captain."

One word. A whisper, a command, a call to duty. A reminder. Boromir did not want to hear it. But murder was not the way of Gondor.

He gasped, groaned from his very soul. He let go.

"Boromir?" Pippin, fearful.

Suddenly, Boromir was looking into the wide, frightened eyes of his small friend.

"Do not fear, Pippin," he said, and sounded like himself again. "It's over."

Boromir got to his feet, saw Garad and Damrod stood at the head of the steps. "Take him away!" he snapped.

"Where?" Garad asked, his look of disappointment becoming something else entirely as he bent to pick up the bloodied noose. With a shudder, Boromir realized he intended to use it to bind his prisoner.

"Elena?" Garad called down to her at the foot of the stairs. "What would be safest?"

She shrugged, uncertain. "Her Grace would know, but…. We don't know where she is."

Reminded of his missing wife, Boromir wanted to kill Denethor all over again.

"Just get him out of my sight! Fast!" he snarled. "And keep him away from me!"

Faramir was bent double again, barely able to breathe, coughing again, his broken hands clawing at the throat that hurt him so badly.

"Get some water up here!" Boromir yelled.

It was already on the way, Ciran hurrying up the steps, a bucket of water and a ladle in his hands. Boromir nodded thanks, taking the water and kneeling beside his brother.

Occupied as he was with Faramir, Boromir took time out to scowl murderously at Denethor as Garad dragged him past. Denethor stared back in angry disbelief at Boromir as Garad bound his hands at his back. Garad jerked his head at Damrod and Ciran, handing Denethor off to them. Together, they hauled him roughly down the steps, away from their Captains.

Holding his brother's shoulders, Boromir watched in an agony of helplessness. Faramir fought to steady himself. He concentrated fiercely, with all the sharpness and focus unique to him, and gradually began winning the battle with his body, one even breath through the nose at a time. He shook his head, 'no', as Boromir offered the water. He dared not try to swallow just yet, for all he must be painfully dry.

"He's still so cold," Pippin said, one hand on Faramir's bare arm. Garad unpinned his cloak and added its warmth to that of Boromir's, draping it over his Captain's back. Faramir tried to stand, his legs not wanting to work. He gave a Garad a nod, waiting for the other Man to come into position on the other side of Faramir.

"Let's get you home," Boromir said. Then it hit him. Home. Home was Liel. She was not here. Nothing would have stopped her arriving with Elena and her archers to save Faramir….

Nothing but death.

"Where is she?" Elena snapped.

Boromir looked down, saw her holding the dainty poniard Garad had made her, point first to one of Denethor's eyes.

"She will rot and her spawn is mine," Denethor snarled, spittle at his lips.

"Doesn't …know…." Faramir rasped. Then his voice broke and he could say no more.

"He doesn't know where she is," Garad relayed. Elena looked up at him uncertainly, her light brown eyes narrowed and disappointed.

"He doesn't know," Garad repeated. "Faramir is sure."

She shoved Denethor and he toppled into Damrod's and Ciran's rough grasp.

"Where is she, then?" Elena demanded of Garad. "We've searched everywhere, damnit!"

Faramir tried to answer but only wheezed and looked in danger of a relapse. He swore, silently, vehemently his lips forming the unmistakable shape of the word "fuck". Then, struck by inspiration, he gestured clumsily at himself, then lifted his mangled hands to form an hour glass, then did it again.

Boromir was too frozen with terror at the image of Liel's hands looking like that to respond.

"She was with you?" Garad asked, stepping into the breach.

Faramir nodded an emphatic 'yes!', regretted it for a moment, and then tried to hold up the fingers of two hands. Gasping in pain at the instinctive mistake, another silent "fuck" shook the air. Then, carefully, he managed to hold up three fingers.

"Three," Garad said.

Faramir nodded, slowly this time, and held them out again.

"Three more? Six?"

Faramir nodded again, managing to make use of a jutting, broken finger to indicate "one".

"Seven?" Garad asked.

Faramir nodded, shoving his whole arm up in the air as high as he could make it go.

"The seventh level!" Garad said, pleased as Faramir nodded again, then leaned heavily against Boromir, exhausted from the effort.

"A big place," Garad realized, worried again.

Sighing, Faramir turned, looking hard and direct into Boromir's eyes.

"Right," Boromir said, finding his voice and hope in his brother's expression. "You lead the way, we carry you. Garad, help me."


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen -- Unfinished Business

"I'll do it," Garad said. Boromir opened his mouth to object and the Ranger pointed at his wounded leg.

Boromir glanced down.

"Oh," he said, irritated. With his attention drawn to the injury, he could feel its strident complaint, see it was bleeding again a little. "I'm fine."

Garad just rolled his eyes and shook his head as Shadowfax nudged Boromir in the back and snorted.

"Of course, My Lord," Boromir nodded. Stepping back, he ignored a puzzled and worried glance from Garad.

Shadowfax edged around closer to Faramir and lowered his noble head. The Lord of the Mearas gave a whooshing huff that blew the sticky strands of hair back from Faramir's bruised and swollen face. He basked in the warmth of it, his one good eye closing as he gave his own sigh of relief. Shadowfax lowered his muzzle even closer, the velvet softness of his upper lip ever so gently brushing Faramir's cheek. Blinking, Faramir turned his head into the touch.

Some of the tension eased from Boromir as he watched them greet one another. Faramir would have so loved all he had experienced in Imladris, in Lothlorien, in Fangorn... At least they could share this magic together. He smiled again as his brother looked up at him in wonderment. He knew what Faramir wanted to say, so he said it for him.

"Dark days bring great deeds, Little Brother. Shadowfax, Lord of the Mearas, meet Faramir, Captain-General of the Rangers of Ithilien."

The horse gave a most elegant bow despite the cramped conditions. Faramir tried to return the courtesy, but flinched a little with the movement. Hands on hips, eyebrows crashed together over the bridge of his nose, Garad watched the exchange.

"You've already met Garad, my brother's First Lieutenant," Boromir continued, gesturing in the other Man's direction. Shadowfax eyed the big Ranger with a look that made Boromir's smile widen.

"He asks to carry you home," Boromir told Faramir, his throat tightening as he saw the pleasure that lit his brother's battered features. "Such an invitation is rare indeed." He held his brother's gaze and added intently, "And given to very few."

Reaching out, Boromir stroked Shadowfax's neck. "Thank you, My Lord. You saved my brother."

Again reminded of how close run it had been, his eyes stung and he dropped his chin, trying to avoid meeting the concerned looks sure to be coming his way. He saw his sword was still buried in the back of the dead executioner and he went to retrieve it, automatically wiping the blade off on the dead man's tunic.

Pippin stood close by, watching him worriedly. Boromir reached out and squeezed his shoulder as much to reassure himself as his small friend.

"So?" Garad said, eyeing the horse blocking his way uncertainly, but addressing Boromir. "I'll carry Faramir down the stairs, then?"

Again, Shadowfax met Garad's eyes, lowering his head in a nod of affirmation.

Garad's jaw dropped, but he returned the nod. "Right, then. Come along, My Captain."

Faramir moved, just a fraction, and Boromir and Garad barked in urgent unison, "Stop!"

Garad bent and slid one arm beneath Faramir's legs, the other around his shoulders, scooping him up into his arms smoothly and gently. Shadowfax went ahead of them down the stairs and immediately lowered himself to all fours, preparing for Garad to lift the wounded Man to his back.

The Rangers and the Giliath tried to appear nonchalant before the gaping civilian onlookers, as if having their Captain-General turn to his horse for direction happened every day.

Denethor glowered angrily as Ciran and Damrod moved him further away from the steps and the approach of Faramir. Coming down the stairs, Garad gave his friends a broad wink over his Captain's head.

Elena raised a chiding eyebrow at him even as she signalled her troops to bring her horse.

"Pippin, ride with Garad, please," Boromir instructed at the foot of the stairs. "Shadowfax is strong enough to carry all three of us, but –"

"There's not much room and it'll be easier for Faramir," Pippin finished, nodding his understanding.

Boromir mounted first, privately glad of Shadowfax's kneeling, for his leg pounded pain and he doubted he could have managed bareback without someone to boost him. Up on the horse's back, he reached out to Garad and Faramir. His brother, he was pleased to note, was recovered sufficiently to look both embarrassed at being carried, and fussy as he noticed Boromir's old wound. Even with only one eye working, he managed to convey the Healer's familiar reproving look.

That brought Aragorn to mind, and he quickly pushed the thought away, not wanting to imagine what his friend might be facing now.

"Nothing. It's old," Boromir explained, before Faramir could hurt himself more by trying to ask. He reached to steady his brother as Garad prepared to transfer him.

"Are you sure about this?" Elena asked Garad, looking at the white stallion warily, no doubt noting the lack of saddle and bridle.

"This is Shadowfax," Pippin introduced proudly. "He's Lord of the Mearas and he doesn't let anyone fall."

Elena's reaction to that was lost as hooded and cloaked members of the Giliath appeared leading enough mounts for them all and she turned to her own horse. "Where do we start?" Boromir heard her ask. "We've already searched everywhere. We've torn the seventh level apart."

Faramir elbowed Garad, indicating something behind them. Boromir turned, saw the wine crates his brother had been made to stand atop.

"The wine cellars? Is that where she is?" Garad asked, and Boromir recalled suddenly that Denethor's breath had reeked of the stuff.

"No," Boromir corrected. "He means my father's private store."

"We know there are tunnels that are the source of the infiltration by enemy agents. Denethor will know where the entry is if nothing else," Elena said as she swung into her saddle.

Faramir nodded an emphatic yes, flinching as his neck and shoulders hurt him.

Boromir fought the urgent need to charge ahead and leave his brother in his friends' care. But, only Faramir would know exactly where Liel was. Denethor's lair was a maze, dug back deep into the caverns and rock of Mindolluin. And that was the only section Boromir knew a little about, there was more beyond locked doors. Even Liel's people had been unable to penetrate it. Boromir suspected there was more to its secrecy than what met the eye. All he knew for certain was that after his mother's death, it had become his father's retreat and he had never been the same.

Suddenly, Boromir could have kicked himself, realizing he had killed the one henchman, the executioner, who might have been able to take them straight to Liel.

"Bring Denethor!" Boromir snapped

"And watch him close!" Garad warned. Elena shook her head and scowled at the unnecessary instruction. Garad gave her a smile and she flipped two fingers at him.

"Giliath! Cover!" Elena ordered, taking the reins of her mount.

"Careful, now," Boromir urged as Garad shifted his grip and lifted Faramir over, not jolting him in the slightest as he was placed astride. Nonetheless, Faramir gasped and tensed in real pain, worrying Boromir anew.

"Lean back, let me take your weight," Boromir coaxed, then was even more worried when his brother did not grumble but simply obeyed, the muscles of his back taut as he fought the suffering coursing through him. There was so much bruising about Faramir's chest that Boromir could not be sure exactly how much damage had been done.

"Did they break ribs?" he demanded, stopping himself from wrapping his arms tightly about his brother as Shadowfax stood.

Faramir shook his head, hissing with the pain of it, annoyed, worried, impatient. He tensed, setting himself to urge the horse onward. But Shadowfax understood and lunged forward into a smooth gallop, the other horses immediately following. Some of the riders had to scramble to leap astride their already moving mounts, Garad among them, springing up behind Pippin.

Boromir gently pulled Faramir back against him, wrapping his left arm about his brother's waist, keeping the right close to his sword hilt. Faramir made no protest but rested his weary head against Boromir's shoulder, and Boromir was glad as he felt him relax a little. They had to expect more trouble closer to Denethor's seat of power. His bastard father had allowed the enemy greater access than Boromir would have thought possible in the time. Faramir's torturers, surely were not Men of Minas Tirith, but agents from the south. Liel would know...

"When you saw Liel last, she was unharmed?" Boromir couldn't stop himself from asking.

Faramir nodded, tried to speak, the muscles in his back tightening as he coughed and swore.

"Rest," Boromir urged. He lifted his right hand to push Faramir's head back against his shoulder again and looked down at him, frowning until the coughing spasm passed.

"Not long now and she'll be fussing over us both," he told him, silently begging it to be true and finding reassurance in Faramir's responding twitch of a smile.

Pippin watched as everyone stopped at the head of the cellar stairs. It had been more than an hour now since they had all arrived at the Seventh Level. At the great, sweeping steps that led to the double doors of the Stewards' Hall, Boromir had dismounted, leaving Faramir still astride Shadowfax.

The sentries on duty by the door had saluted crisply then stepped aside in surprise as Shadowfax continued onward, not slowing as he entered the hall. Pippin had followed close after Boromir and Garad and Elena who led the way, up and down hallways and stairs, through what seemed to Pippin an impossibly large and confusing building with many rooms. Though he would not admit it, he was already tiring. He had managed to sleep sometimes, secure in his friend's arms during the long ride to Boromir's city, but he had had little to eat.

Boromir showed no sign of weariness, too on edge, terrified for his missing wife. He stalked, battle ready, sword in hand, close by Shadowfax' side, obeying Faramir's silent directions.

There had been some consternation among the Rangers and archers, too, when Shadowfax had not hesitated as they arrived outside the magnificent marble building. The other horses had stayed there, but Shadowfax remained with the group, as intent on the rescue as any and needed to carry the wounded Man and free the others to fight if need be.

Finally, they had reached this locked cellar door beneath Denethor's rooms. Boromir had taken a great ring of keys from a frightened servant back in the entry hall, but none fitted this lock. Pippin heard him swear and saw him look around as if seeking something to use to break the lock, his wounded leg preventing him kicking the door.

Shaking his head, Garad shoved him aside and did it for him. There was a resounding thump and a creak, the door holding, but only until Garad kicked it a second time and the metal pins holding the lock pulled free.

Pippin looked nervously from one Man to the other. Boromir seemed ready to charge on down into the blackness beyond the mouth of the door. Pippin did not need to look at Faramir to know these were the dungeon corridors that led to the cell in which he had been imprisoned and tortured. Suddenly, Pippin wondered how many days the Man had endured such brutal punishment to keep Frodo and Sam safe, to keep the Quest of the Ring alive. He shuddered at the images that came to him, pushed them as suddenly away again. He did not want to know, did not want to think about it. He would focus instead on the brothers' courage that gave strength and hope to all who followed them.

"I go first," Garad said and stepped in front of Boromir, interposing his large frame between him and the first step.

Boromir gave a great heaving sigh but did not object, casting a glance back at his exhausted brother, knowing he needed to stay close at Faramir's side to understand his hoarse, weakly whispered directions.

"Do you know which way to go from here?" Elena called from behind them. It seemed to Pippin that she tried for a taunting tone, but failed to hide the worry for Garad carrying in the question.

Garad jabbed a thumb at Boromir and Faramir. "Two steps ahead of them," he replied.

"Right," Elena conceded the point and Garad gave her a smile. She sighed with exasperation. "I'll be right behind you. Don't trip and fall on me. Again."

Garad snorted what could have been a laugh, but he waited until she stepped up to cover his back.

"A little light might be useful," Elena said chidingly and reached up to remove a lit torch from a wall sconce.

Its shifting shadows did nothing to improve the sense of waiting malice. It would be foolish to allow Boromir, hindered by a wounded leg, and surely now Gondor's ruling Steward, to walk head first into what might be a trap. Swords at the ready, the two stepped warily forward.

Swallowing hard against a dry throat and a pounding heart, Pippin stepped up, ready to fight alongside them in the dark and menacing tunnels. After all, Boromir had done more for him many a time.

He took two paces to follow Garad and Elena only to have a very large hand grip his shoulder and gently pull him back.

"Thanks, Pippin," Boromir said. "But I'd prefer you stay with Faramir. I'll put you up on Shadowfax so you can guard our backs again. You did it well up there."

Pippin nodded acceptance of the thanks, and the order, glad that Boromir had not said, "up there, on the gallows." It still made Pippin sick to his stomach to think of that horror. And Faramir's own father had ordered it? No he would not think of it again. He would not! Faramir was safe now and that was all that mattered.

With a grunt, Boromir boosted Pippin up onto Shadowfax, in front of Faramir. The warmth of the horse contrasted sharply with the chill touch of Faramir's chest, his arms just as cold as Boromir helped him clumsily hold to Pippin. Lacing his fingers into the soft strength of Shadowfax's mane, Pippin secured them both. He knew the horse would never let them fall, but something was not right about this place, countering the magic of the Lord of the Mearas. He could feel it in his very bones, the same malevolent presence that powered the Ring.

The underground corridors were reasonably well lit, as more torches were set ablaze by the four members of the Giliath who had come with them, showing a full length at a glance. This first tunnel was empty, but Pippin feared what or who might lurk at the cross corridors. Then too, he discovered as they moved deeper into the maze, there were alcoves here and there in the stone walls that were perfect for anyone wanting to set an ambush. Sweat trickled under Pippin's collar and made his shoulder blades itch.

He continued on, wincing whenever he heard Faramir try to say something. Somehow, Boromir could understand him where no one else could. In the echoing stillness, Pippin could make out nothing more than a painful deep rasp-wheeze that set his skin to gooseflesh and his teeth on edge. The sounds returned images of the Man swinging by the rope tight about his neck. How could they? Why would anyone in Gondor want to do that to Boromir's brother, let alone a father do that to a son!

Pippin shivered and plodded on, again glad of Shadowfax' calm warmth and strength. At the third set of cross corridors, Faramir gave some message that Boromir relayed as "Close now. Stay sharp." Pippin winced as a sudden wash of light from a wall torch revealed Faramir's bloodied and broken hands. He was almost thankful when the darkness fell back around them again.

Garad and Elena went on ahead again, as silent as a cats on the prowl for an unwary bird. They disappeared around the next corner. A sudden thud and an oof from ahead in the fire-lit darkness startled Pippin and he lifted his sword in alarm.

"It's all right!" Elena called, sounding rattled but trying to cover it. "Garad fell. Tripped over his own feet."

"Did not," Garad's grumpy response echoed from ahead. "There's something down there."

Boromir shook his head impatiently, hurrying forward. As Shadowfax rounded the curve, Pippin saw Garad had just gotten to his feet with Elena's help. He rubbed at his knee, looking most disgruntled and frowning down at the rock floor.

"I tell you, there's something there," he repeated. He left off rubbing his knee to examine his hand. Craning forward and squinting against the shadows, Pippin thought he saw blood on the Man's palm and smeared on his trouser leg.

Elena knelt down on the floor of the tunnel and carefully ran her hands over every inch she could reach. Finding nothing, she continued her search, covering the ground from wall to wall. Boromir, meantime, began checking the wall above, holding his torch close to it, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

"Well?" Pippin asked after a long moment, sensing Faramir was about to try to ask for himself.

"Nothing," Boromir said. "But, I could swear…."

"Faramir feels it, too," Pippin said, after Faramir nudged him with an elbow. Shadowfax danced agitatedly beneath them, his hooves beating a staccato on the rock. "Shadowfax says something's wrong."

"I know," Boromir growled.

"I can't find anything, either," Elena snapped irritably, getting up from her knees.

"I told you," Garad said sharply, but at the same time reached a helping hand to cup her elbow.

"You're bleeding," she said, pulling away. "You've cut your hand."

He immediately rubbed the blood off on his tunic.

"Let me see it, damn it!" Elena swore, grabbing Garad's wrist to stop him. Pippin's heart raced as he watched them, his throat dry. There was a cold cruel pressure building about them, suffocating, carrying terror, making it hard to think. But Pippin had felt it before, seen its affect at the Council of Elrond, trying to set friend against friend.

"Boromir," he called, waiting until the Man turned grudgingly toward him. "It's here. Like the Ring. Can't you feel it?"

"I feel it," Boromir agreed. "But we face the Master now, not his creation."

"Oh, fucking wonderful!" Garad swore. "Well, bring it on, I need to kill something."

Boromir came over to inspect the damage to Garad's hand, to gauge the attack. He watched as Elena turned Garad's hand palm upward, bringing it into the torchlight. Boromir hissed through his teeth and Pippin, again craning over Shadowfax' neck, saw an ugly ragged gash, oozing dark blood. It looked exactly like sharp fangs had slashed at Garad's hand.

"The rock face is smooth and seamless," Boromir said in frustration. "What the hell did that to your hand?"

"Damned if I know." Garad just sighed and shook his head.

Elena took her water skin and poured some into the small wound to clean it. Then, she took a clean kerchief from her pocket.

"It's all right," Garad said, "Don't dirty your lace."

"Shut up," she said, stepping on his boot and leaning forward to begin bandaging.

Faramir leaned hard over Pippin, drawing the Boromir and Garad's attention. He rasped something unintelligible, and Boromir heaved another great sigh.

"The Shadow..." he translated. "It's probably poisoned."

"My day gets better," Garad muttered.

Shadowfax took two paces closer, his muzzle lowering toward Garad's outstretched hand. The Horse blew softly and Garad couldn't stop himself giving a sigh of relief.

"It doesn't hurt now," he said, looking with wondering surprise at the Lord of the Mearas. "Thanks."

The Horse nodded, but something in the gesture indicated he was not entirely happy with the result. It seemed to Pippin that Shadowfax had expected the wound to disappear completely.

Boromir gave a disgusted snort. "The enemy is well entrenched here."

"The cut is still bleeding," Elena said. "Here, Handsome, you get my best bandage."

Garad huffed something like a laugh and kissed the top of her head as she bent to tend him. The malevolence surrounding them didn't like that. Pippin could almost sense it sneering at them, preparing to spring another trap.

Frightened, he focused instead on the couple. Suddenly, he realised how pretty Elena was, her hair a mass of unruly red-gold curls, her green eyes seeming too big for her small heart-shaped face. She was only a little taller than Pippin, tiny by comparison as she stood next to the big Ranger. There were dimples in her cheeks whenever she smiled, and her smile was hearteningly cheeky.

Faramir poked Pippin in the side again, and he looked up at the Man's weary, drawn face, found it deeply lined with tension. Pippin tried to figure what it was Faramir wanted to say, but could only frown puzzlement.

As ever, Boromir understood. He stepped up and squeezed his brother's arm. "Relax. Whatever it is, we'll beat it." Boromir looked back to the others, and said, "There's no point in this. It's a dead end, anyway."

"I don't know," Elena said, finishing her bandaging with a knot. "Some of our people got this far and reported the same thing. Maybe we're meant to be driven off."

"There must be another way around this tunnel," Garad mused. "Maybe if we – "

Faramir shook his head so vehemently that he hurt himself.

"Easy!" Boromir swung back to him. Then, catching Faramir's desperation, he froze.

"Here," Faramir managed to croak. "'Sss ...."

"The cells?" Pippin hoped he guessed right. "They're right here?" Faramir was already hurting enough without this.

Faramir nodded and hugged him a little with his elbows in thanks despite struggling not to succumb to another coughing fit.

"Liel's in there, but we can't get to her." Boromir lifted a hand and ran it in the familiar gesture through his dirty hair.

"We're soldiers, how do we fight something we can't see?" Garad asked, brandishing his sword. "Damn it, show yourself, coward!!"

Shadowfax's neck curved about and he nudged Boromir.

"You know?" Boromir asked and the horse snorted and nodded.

Shadowfax moved forward, making Elena and Garad stand aside. The stallion began pawing at the place where Garad had fallen. Boromir followed, holding the torch high.

Pippin gasped, the sound echoed by others' similar reactions. For an instant, they all saw it: An upraised metallic edge, reflecting the firelight. Then it was gone again. Shadowfax's hoof lifted and fell once more, with a clang. The thing reappeared and disappeared just as fast.

"Huh," Elena said, shivering. The chill had grown markedly worse and Pippin, cold himself, realised he could see her breath. "I guess you didn't trip over your boots after all."

Garad said nothing but put his arm around her and drew her close for warmth. Well, for warmth of one kind or another, Pippin decided, glad of the comfort their affection brought him. He could sense Faramir's and Shadowfax's urgent frustration, their muscles tightening further. There was the faintest sound of pain from Faramir, as his shivering became a shudder.

"You should be in the Houses of Healing," Boromir sounded annoyed at his helplessness. He looked back worriedly at his brother. Pippin could not see the expression Faramir leveled at him, but he saw Boromir's disgruntled resignation.

Damrod appeared, his cloak in his hands. "Here," he said, handing it up to Pippin. "Get that about him. It's too damned cold in here for a wounded Man."

Boromir gratefully clapped the grey-haired Ranger on the back. Damrod nodded, both of them turning to help Pippin tuck the third cloak about Faramir. Pippin was glad of the help, awkward astride the horse.

Again, Shadowfax struck the metallic seam, his urgency driving him to move despite everyone needing him to hold steady as they aided Faramir.

"It's there and then it's not," Garad complained, squatting to get a better look. "Hit it again, Stud."

Shadowfax lifted his head with a snort, surprised by the nickname. Pippin could sense his pleased amusement.

Suddenly, Pippin no longer felt as cold, the air was not as heavy, the dread easing just a little.

"Holy shit!" Elena exclaimed, jumping back and stumbling over Garad.

He caught her, and staring upward, whistled. "You can say that again!"

A sucking blackness had appeared at the end of the tunnel, a hole, an entry where moments before had been solid rock.

Then, slowly, light began leeching into the shadowy mouth, coming from a corridor beyond, tempting them to venture further.

Garad stood, pulling his sword from the scabbard. "Me first."

"Not without me, you don't." Elena stepped to his side, her sword at the ready.

"No!" Pippin exclaimed, unable to stop himself. The thing was evil, waiting to swallow them alive. It should be left alone.

"In!" Faramir rasped, insistent. Boromir looked up at him with a grim nod.

This was the place, then, the place where Faramir had been tortured for days. Many others too, must have been made to suffer and perhaps die, here. Pippin swallowed hard. If he had been alone, he'd turn and run. Of course, if he were alone, he wouldn't have come in here at all.

Faramir's chin dropped to rest on Pippin's head, a touch of reassurance emphasized by the tightening of his arms in a steadying hug at Pippin's waist. Pippin nodded thanks, afraid to touch Faramir's arm for fear of bumping the Man's terribly hurt hands.

Ahead, the ugly shadowed mouth shimmered like oily water, lapping at the rock edges and suddenly spilling free. Pippin flinched and instinctively pulled back. Shadowfax pawed the ground, shaking his head, his great mane flaring white against the black. The mouth opened wide, and Pippin expected to see teeth gnashing as it crept toward them.

Boromir, Garad, and Elena braced, side by side, their weapons drawn. Suddenly, Pippin was back in Moria, at Balin's tomb, watching from behind as Aragorn, Legolas and Boromir readied to defend them, no matter it was a cave troll and an army of Orcs and Goblins outside.

"I wish Gandalf was here," Pippin said, his hand sweating inside the glove that grasped his sword hilt.

"We could use some magic, that's for sure," Garad agreed, his shoulders flexing and his knees bending as he settled into a fighter's stance.

Boromir's left hand lowered to pull his dirk, and as usual, bumped into the horn that was slung across his hip. He inhaled sharply as if something had struck him. Pippin peered closely at him, but was sure he was unhurt.

"Plug your ears," Boromir told them all, his hand grasping the horn rather than the dirk.

"You're not going to..." Garad gaped. He pivoted and clapped his hands over Elena's ears, pulling her head into his chest and hunching over her. She squirmed but he held her tight as Boromir lifted the horn to his lips.

"Wait!" Pippin urged. Tilting his head back, he let go of Shadowfax's mane, reached up, and plugged Faramir's ears with his fingers, hoping his arms would block some of the overwhelming noise.

The horn sounded, deep and clear, implacable.

Pippin had expected it to hurt in the enclosed, echoing space, expected it to rebound from wall to wall, deafening them all. And it did, but it didn't hurt. It flooded the air, humming through them all. Tears came to Pippin's eyes, the beauty and power of the sound resonating with something deep inside him, something he often doubted could be part of him. He could feel it, calling, summoning that same noble essence.

A flare of warmth enveloped him, driving back the chill and making the darkness quail and cower away. With the warmth came a brightness, thousands of glowing, welcoming shapes flew all around, protecting them. They gathered like stardust across a perfect winter's night, a shimmering army of defenders. Every brave heart who had ever dwelled within Gondor was responding to Boromir's call.

Dragging his gaze from the loveliness of the gathered spirits, Pippin lowered his hands from Faramir's ears, saw the Man was smiling and weeping at the same time, watching his brother. He was no longer cold, but felt warm and revitalized to Pippin's touch. Pippin turned, saw Garad, wonderment and triumph shining in his eyes, Elena close, suddenly seeming as tall and strong as he.

Boromir stood in front of them, no longer sounding the horn, but still holding it upraised. He appeared a spirit himself, no longer flesh and blood but Gondor's history and glory come to life, more overpowering in his presence than the towering Argonath.

"Begone!" Faramir whispered, as clear and strong as any shout, a ringing command.

"This is Gondor's hour!" Boromir threw the words defiantly at the evil presence.

With one last shuddering, sullen hiss, the black mouth recoiled, collapsed in on itself, vanished.

In its place appeared a perfectly normal rock arch portal. Beyond, flaming torchlight bled into the shadows with warm red gold.

The glimmering spirit stars shone in one last blinding salute and were gone.

"I'm impressed," Garad said, faintly. Then he laughed, a great grin lighting his rugged face.

"It's true!" Elena said in a soft awed tone.

Boromir nodded. "The bloody thing works. It's worth carrying after all." He too, grinned. Striding over to Faramir, he reached up and adjusted the cloaks, laying careful fingers on his brother's chest, over his heart.

"He doesn't feel cold anymore, Boromir," Pippin translated for his exasperated charge.

"He's still hurt, and he still needs a Healer," Boromir remained adamant.

"Close…." Faramir repeated the warning, and Pippin saw understanding strike fear and longing and hope all at once into Boromir's heart. His wife was not far off, but was she dead or alive? Unharmed or as tortured as Faramir had been?

Boromir drew his sword and strode forward the tunnel.

Garad blocked his way. "You're the Steward, now, Idiot." He nodded toward the waiting doorway. "My job."

"Ahem," Elena cleared her throat.

Garad chuckled. "Our job," he corrected. "Come on, let's go get her."

Side by side, they marched forward and stepped into the corridor. First checking that Denethor and his guards were safely tucked away at the cross -corridor behind, Boromir followed, Shadowfax falling into step behind him. Only a few paces ahead, the tunnel curved sharply and Garad and Elena disappeared from sight, swallowed by the darkness ahead.

"Liel!"

Elena's exultant voice rang out, bouncing off the walls of the corridor. Faramir squished a gasp from Pippin in reaction, and Shadowfax moved quickly closer until his nose was at Boromir's shoulder as the Man strode forward.

"Where?" Boromir demanded, sheathing his sword.

A tall, dark-haired woman appeared. She radiated an aura of command despite her dirty face and ripped and stained dress and she carried a long, bloodied knife in her right hand, and her left was clenched in a fist.

She froze when she saw Boromir, and he did the same. They stood for a moment, her expression making Pippin want to weep for joy. Another Man came into view behind her, a grey haired, lean soldier, judging by the tattered remnants of his black and silver tunic and the professional way he handled the blade in his hand.

"Liel!" Boromir exclaimed, half-sobbing, opening his arms to her.

"Boromir!" She answered, her voice husky with overwhelming relief as she came toward him. "They have Faramir!"

"No longer. I have him now." Boromir's voice wavered, broke, and Pippin could hear the tears thick in the words. Boromir took another step and drew her into his embrace, enfolding her into his arms and holding her tight to his chest. She gave a grunt of discomfort and he immediately let her loose, quickly studying her for injury.

"They hurt you?" She shook her head in denial, looking up at him as if she couldn't believe he was real. His jaw set as he touched a hand to her throat. Pippin thought he saw a red mark, an old bruise, there.

"Denethor destroyed it," she told him, reaching up to cup his face in her free hand. "You're all right? We feared…."

He kissed her quickly, sharply, pulling her to him again, more gently this time.

"Faramir?" Pippin heard her ask, her voice muffled, her hand moving to hold the back of Boromir's neck.

"He's here," Boromir answered, turning her without releasing her so she could see where Faramir sat on Shadowfax, grinning to make his mouth bleed again.

"Mir!" she cried, handing Elena her knife before going to Faramir. She seemed to take the presence of the horse in her stride, all her attention on the bare foot she could see below the hems of the cloaks covering Faramir. She touched his ankle gently, careful to avoid the injuries as much as possible, looking up at Faramir with tears in her grey eyes, her lips pressed hard together as she fought not to weep.

Seeming to understand their need, Shadowfax slowly knelt so that she could reach him. Faramir grunted with the inevitable jarring, but Pippin felt him move despite it. She stopped him, by the simple expedient of sweeping Pippin into the hug she delivered to keep Faramir seated.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should have acted sooner…. Forgive me, 'Mir."

Faramir guttered something, his mouth close to her ear.

"Safe," replied, so quietly Pippin barely heard her. "But I will not tell him here, not like this."

Faramir sighed understanding, and then Pippin could breathe again, the tight double-grip on his middle gone as she straightened. Boromir was behind her, and Pippin saw his arm come around her waist.

"You should be in the Houses of Healing," she said aloud, frowning sternly up at Faramir. "And where did you get this horse?"

"This is Shadowfax," Boromir told her. "Lord of the Mearas. Our other friend here is Peregrin Took, of the Shire."

She blinked mild surprise, then dipped her head to return the horse's similar greeting. Then it was Pippin's turn to come under the scrutiny of her gaze, and her look was one he knew well. It meant he was in for a scrub and haircut, if his mother and sisters were anything to go by.

"They saved Faramir," Boromir said.

"No," Pippin denied. "I didn't do anything."

Boromir snorted, giving Pippin a smile as he gently lifted his wife's hair aside to bare the back of her neck. "You gave us cover, that is much."

Again, Pippin caught sight of the tell-tale welt encircling her neck where a chain had once been. Boromir leaned forward and touched his lips to the bruise.

"Then I owe you both my thanks," Liel smiled, tilting her head a little to allow Boromir to kiss the side of her neck.

"How did you escape?" Pippin asked, translating for the strangling Faramir, as Boromir's attention was understandably elsewhere.

"When they came for me again, they made the mistake of only sending one Man," she replied, smiling coldly. "It seems they had their hands full taking Captain Aradan out to hang."

Boromir turned to the Man and took his arm in a warrior's grip. "My thanks."

"I did little," the old soldier said with a smile. "Her Grace managed with her usual style." The smile faded as he asked, braced to hear the worst, "Our Men?"

"Safe," Boromir tightened his grasp in reassurance. "Garad and I encountered them on the Pelennor and sent them back."

Aradan let out a breath and sagged a little with the force of his relief.

"Again," Boromir said, "I owe you thanks. Your courage stalled Denethor's intent long enough that they could be saved."

"Mine, and Faramir's," Aradan corrected, casting a sad and proud look up at the tortured Man. "They wanted no information from me. I do not know if I could have endured if they had."

Boromir swallowed hard and nodded, then turned back to Liel, forcing a smile as he asked, "Your usual style? What this time?"

" I begged a spindle and wool to ease my boredom," Liel shrugged. "It suited the pig's pride to make me into a drudge."

Boromir flashed a real grin and took her into his arms again, this time kissing her soundly.

A cheer echoed about the tunnel, a whistle and hoot added as Garad and Elena reappeared, holding hands and smiling smugly.

"Spindle?" Pippin said, puzzled.

Garad lifted a hand and mimed someone driving it hard forward and up. "Into the eye," he answered. "The body is back there, with the others."

"And you can use the string for a garrotte or a trip-wire," Elena added briskly.

Pippin flinched, wishing he had not asked.

Faramir tried to speak, but could not quite manage a coherent word. He coughed and Liel and Boromir turned back to him immediately.

"You must keep warm," Liel said and pulled the cloaks more snugly about him, bringing their edges around Pippin, too, trapping his warmth in the thick cocoon of fabric. "We must hurry. Where is the pig?"

"Right here." Boromir took her elbow and guided her about the horse as Shadowfax again stood. Pippin's empty stomach did a little flip-flop at the movement. The Men and Women around them parted before Boromir, clearing the way to Denethor. That made a passageway and Liel saw Denethor braced by his Ranger guards.

"You!"

It was so vehemently snarled that Pippin jumped, making Faramir flinch.

Liel stalked closer, Boromir snarling at her side. She slapped Denethor hard across the face. He staggered, only his guards keeping him upright.

"Traitor!" she spat.

"She's mine!" Denethor growled.

"You forfeited that right! She was never yours!" She punched him in the midriff and as he doubled over she kneed him in the jaw. He sagged, stunned. "I'd kill him now, but there are others he holds prisoner. We may yet need him. Come!"

Boromir followed her without question, but Pippin's stomach did another flip-flop as he saw Boromir's face set with the same expression of sick dread that had over taken him when he had realized Faramir was about to die. And it had nothing to do with Denethor's fate. Did Faramir, too, have a lady friend who was being held hostage? Pippin did not want to ask.

Shadowfax turned, taking care in the narrow tunnel not to brush Faramir's feet and legs against the wall. Garad and Elena fell into step flanking the horse and keeping an eye on Faramir. Damrod and Ciran hauled Denethor after Shadowfax, the Giliath falling into the rear-guard.

"This way," Liel indicated as they came to the cross-corridor and she turned in a different direction from that they had taken, "It's faster."

The confusion muddled the line and brought Denethor and his guards to the front. Liel glared, looking ready to hit him again, and Pippin saw Elena put the knife she still carried out of sight.

"You'll need me!" Denethor said cold and eerily calm as he regarded her.

"Not nearly so much as you think, Pig," she warned, and Boromir took a step toward him.

Denethor tried to back away and Shadowfax aided his guards in shoving him forward again. Liel cocked an eyebrow at the horse, then dipped her head again in approval. She touched her hand to Faramir's side, taking and giving reassurance, even as she used the other hand to restrain Boromir.

Boromir looked down at her, his gaze lingering on the torn dress and the red weal around her neck. It made him look at Faramir, at the gouge dug by the hangman's rope, and his face turned ugly with an anger driven by the creeping fear Pippin could see in his eyes, that he had come home too late after all.

"There are guards," Denethor said sullenly. "They may have fled, if not I will call them to attend me. They must not suspect anything – she must not be harmed!"

"Unlike your son?" Liel spat. "You disgust me!"

"Faramir?" Denethor's lip curled as he looked back at the wounded Man. "He is nothing but a coward who betrayed me!"

"Gag him!" Boromir snarled, "Or I kill him now!"

Pippin's memory went back to the gallows, to the moment Boromir's hand had closed about his father's throat. Now that fist clenched on his sword hilt as if Boromir would love nothing more than to drive the blade through the old Man's gut. Pippin felt Faramir shift, heard his breathing grow harsher, his mood in perfect harmony with his brother.

"Then I'll leave him as is," Garad said, "And I'll do the killing, save you the time." Garad seemed to enjoy making Denethor quail as he stood a moment as if deciding. Then, with a heavy sigh, he stalked closer and savagely tore a strip from Denethor's tunic. He shoved it forcefully into Denethor's mouth. Set once more, they all turned and followed Liel up the tunnels to a stone stairway.

Pippin heaved a grateful, relieved breath as they exited the gloomy maze and stepped once more into the Hall proper. It was a magnificent building from the outside, and had once been even more beautiful inside. The beauty was gone from this place, decorated to Denethor's taste. The opulence of it jarred against the clean lines of the walls and arches, clashed with the rest of the city.

But Pippin was glad nonetheless for the fresher air, and the marble walls about them, the carpeted floor cushioning their feet. Shadowfax' hooves were more muted here, but still could be heard.

"With your leave, My Lord," Aradan asked Boromir, "I go to the Men."

"With my thanks," Boromir corrected. "Tell them I will give orders for the city's defence as soon as I might. Then, be sure you get some rest." He shook his head ruefully, "Go. You have done well enough these past months without me."

Aradan snorted a laugh. "Only by the skin of our teeth, and thanks to your training!" He saluted, turned and headed away in the other direction.

Pippin turned back from watching that exchange to find Elena staring as Shadowfax continued to carry Faramir through the Hall. "Will that horse go wherever we go?" she asked.

Garad looked over the stallion to tell her, "He carried Boromir all the way from Isengard." Elena's jaw dropped. Garad added, "So I guess he's earned his place here."

"Could be a problem," Elena mused. At Garad's questioning look, she elaborated, "If he follows Boromir into the bedroom tonight."

There was muffled laughter from both Giliath and Rangers. Pippin was simply glad, very glad, of the moment's levity, for he was sickened by all he had seen this day.

"Pippin?" Boromir called, as if he had sensed his distress. "There'll be hot food and rest soon, I promise," he said.

"But—" Pippin wanted to point out that Boromir had not rested and barely eaten himself, but the words were cut off by the tightening of Faramir's arms around him once again. A moment later, he heard a distant wail. It sounded like a baby crying, but not the usual kind of crying. This was shrill, shrieking distress, fear, exhaustion….

Liel drew a sharp sobbing breath, and faltered, her hand going to her stomach. Boromir glanced at her, his hand also at his stomach, and Pippin saw all the remaining colour drain from his face, turning it to a dirty grey. Pippin grunted as Faramir's grasp again squeezed too tightly. He looked up, saw Faramir's swollen jaw set hard, his gaze fixed on the closed timbered door ahead of them at the end of the long corridor

"Get him up here!" Boromir barked.

Taking the gag from Denethor's mouth, Damrod grabbed him by the hair and with Ciran on the other side they dragged him forward.

The wailing continued, demanding help. Liel looked pleadingly to Boromir and for the first time Pippin thought she was afraid. She made a nervous motion with her hand as if to quell Boromir's impulsive anger as he drew his dirk. It was the better weapon for close in work, Pippin remembered. The guards shoved Denethor to stand before the door and Garad pressed his back to the wall at the side, his own fighting knife drawn.

Elena came to Liel, took her Lady in hand, and brought her away from where the killing would happen. Pippin already knew it was most unusual for her to fall back from the fight without protest. Something had her badly unsettled. Frustrated at his helplessness, Faramir urged Shadowfax to carry him closer. The horse complied, bringing them up behind Liel and Elena.

Boromir grabbed the back of Denethor's neck in unspoken threat. One wrong move, and the neck would be snapped.

"Call them," Boromir instructed, his voice low and ugly.

Denethor did, using their names to make sure all came. The moment they stepped clear into the corridor, they died.

Liel was through the door into the room beyond before the last body hit the floor. Boromir was right behind her, Garad and Elena following. Shadowfax surged ahead, carrying Faramir and Pippin to the open doorway to allow them to see inside.

The room seemed peaceful enough but for the continuing anguished scream of the baby. A cradle sat unattended in the middle of the room, a spare and uncomfortable looking chair empty beside it.

It all seemed peaceful enough but for the continuing anguished scream of the baby. A cradle sat unattended in the middle of the room, a spare and uncomfortable looking chair empty beside it.

"I'm here," Liel cried, snatching her dress down and off one arm as she bent over the cradle. "I'm here! It's all right now, I have you!"

She brought the hysterical baby to her breast and it took a moment for her to calm the little thing before it would feed. The wailing gave way to lesser cries, then came the smacking sound of frantic suckling.

Pippin felt Faramir begin to make a sliding dismount. "No! Wait! You need help!"

But two of the Giliath already had him. They carried him inside to a well-stuffed chair close by the door and lowered him into it. Shadowfax stepped back into the hallway, clearing passage for the soldiers to do their work cleaning up the bodies, and bringing more help where needed. Mindful of the trust Boromir had placed in him, Pippin dismounted, drew his sword and went to stand at Faramir's side.

Through it all, Boromir had not moved. He still stood, staring at Liel and the baby at her breast, his dirk shaking in his grasp.

Pippin knew how he felt, just a little. 'If he'd listened to me, if he'd stopped to sleep or even rest….'

His brother, his wife, his child, his Men, the Rangers, would all be dead, taken by the enemy lurking in the heart of his City.

Liel looked up at last, toward Boromir, and Pippin blinked to see how tired she suddenly seemed, the shadows under her eyes as dark as the bruises on her cheek.

"She's mine! You will not take her from me!" Denethor shouted furiously from the hallway. He gave a grunt of pain and fell silent.

Weaving like a drunk, Boromir took a step forward. "Did he... touch you…?" Boromir's voice faltered, and Pippin saw his hands were shaking.

"He would be dead," she replied. Her answer reassured Boromir, and his gaze went to the face of his child. "Sit down, your leg is bleeding."

Boromir didn't obey, instead limping to her. Moving the length of hair falling across her face behind her ear, he touched her cheek with the back of his fingers, his other hand coming to curve around the tiny head supported in the crook of her arm.

"She has the look of you in her eyes," Liel told him, smiling as Boromir fingered the wispy red curls springing from the baby's head.

"A girl?" he murmured, suddenly looking like he'd just taken a punch.

"We have a daughter," she confirmed. "Now sit down before you fall down."

The Giliath brought two big chairs from somewhere, angling the one for Boromir so he could sit and still see and reach his wife and child as they assisted her to sit down in the other chair next to him.

"Sit!" she repeated.

Reluctantly, he did as she bid him. Pippin saw Boromir try to tug his wife's sleeve back up her cold bare arm only to have the effort blocked by the presence of the baby.

Quickly removing his cloak and putting the broach aside, Pippin brought it to them. A Hobbit sized cloak made a generous nursing shawl, and welcome warmth. Boromir found a wan smile of thanks for him.

"You didn't know, did you?" Pippin asked him quietly.

Boromir shook his head. "I had dreams…. They were not – happy ones, I thought the Ring…."

"You're a father!" Pippin congratulated, and Boromir began to smile. Faramir's weary expression echoed his brother's happiness as he watched from his seat by the doorway. Boromir reached once more to stroke the baby's curls, the child suckling contentedly.

"Don't touch her!" Denethor barked, dragging his guards forward and pulling free. "She is mine! She will never betray me, or place another above me!"

Boromir spun back, but Faramir was closer. Despite the rage powering him out of the chair, he had the presence of mind not to use his broken hands, swinging an elbow into Denethor's face with a resounding crunch, bringing the other up to slam into his father's jaw. Denethor fell senseless, Faramir landing partially on top of him, broken feet giving way. His cry of pain was worse for his ravaged throat, worse still for the retching, gasping fit of coughing that followed, turning him inside out.

Then he was in Boromir's arms, lifted and cradled like the child Liel held. There was a narrow hard-looking bed close to a wall at one side of the room. That could only have been for the guards, or perhaps for Liel, the rest of the furnishings indicated Denethor had often visited.

Garad pulled the bed closer, then turned to aid Boromir in holding Faramir steady while Elena snatched pillows and cushions from the more extravagant chairs and couch. She arranged the larger cushions so that they would be beneath him and the others she piled high at the head to raise Faramir's chest to ease his breathing.

"Watch his legs," Boromir ordered, and Garad obeyed, gently, gently securing Faramir's legs across Garad's outstretched arms as they prepared to move him.

"One, two, three…." Boromir counted, and then Faramir was on the bed, half-conscious and moaning. Sheathing his sword, Pippin gathered the scattered cloaks and brought them to the bedside, giving them over to Elena when she reached to take them and tuck them about the Man.

"Ice," Liel barked, and Pippin realized she was speaking to one of her people. "Ice, lots of it, now!" The Man turned and left at a run, another who had been aiding Elena's search, stood ready.

Garad bent over Faramir from the other side of the bed. Again he met Boromir's eyes and suddenly, Pippin was afraid, worried by the pallor and the blueness at Faramir's lips. He'd seen that before. Shortly before Boromir had stopped breathing completely.. He watched as Garad slipped a hand behind Faramir's back, propping him so Boromir could carefully press where the muscles were clenching, trying to ease the spasms.

"They burned his legs," Garad said, suddenly. "I can smell it. The trousers are stuck to the flesh. How?"

There were no burn marks on the trousers, Pippin remembered. If there had been, he would have noticed, and Boromir would have done something. They would never have let him ride.

"Boiling water," Liel answered, flat and angry.

Boromir groaned as if wounded. Pippin's stomach came up in his throat and he turned hurriedly away, gagging.

"They didn't strip him," she continued. "The bastards knew the linen would make it worse, hold the scald in place. They wanted it to burn into the flesh, then have the wound knit with the weave. I killed them too quickly. They should have been made to know such suffering."

She sounded anxious and agitated, needing to continue nursing the baby, but wanting also to tend Faramir. Her normal calm was fraying further by the moment, adding to Pippin's fear that Faramir might be dying.

But, the Man was responding to his brother's attention, the coughing fit gradually subsiding. His breathing was still a terrible straining rasp, but steadier. Boromir swayed on his feet.

"Sit down," Liel repeated. "Before you fall on him."

Boromir waited a moment longer, watching Faramir intently. His bad leg buckled and he collapsed as much as sat into the chair close by the bed.

A tense silence descended on the room, everyone impatiently awaiting the runner's return and concentrating on listening for the least sign of further deterioration in Faramir's breathing. Pippin noted that only the bruises gave the Man's face any colour, the uninjured places were as white as snow, his mouth twisted with pain.

"Is the ice for the burns?" Pippin asked.. He looked back at Boromir but he couldn't see his face for Boromir was holding his head in his hands. Pippin looked up at Garad instead. He had seen that expression before, the grim truth that had taken the light from his father's eyes when he'd been told his best friend was dying.

"Some of it. But it's his breathing that is the real danger," Liel answered. "The flesh where the noose tightened is bruised and swelling. It will close his throat unless we can ease it with the ice."

Boromir gave a wordless sound of distress. Pippin went to him, stretched out a hand, but was hesitant to touch him.

"I found your kit still in your room, Liel," Elena said breathlessly, and Pippin realized she had left the room sometime during Faramir's collapse. She returned now at a run. In her arms she carried a well stocked basket brimming with rolls of bandaging, medicines, needle and thread. "If the burns are not too extensive and not too deep, we have a chance to stop festering." Casting a grim glance to Liel she added determinedly. "As long as we can keep him breathing."

"Gandalf will come," Pippin said, "He healed you, Boromir. And...." He took a deep breath and managed to say, "You were dead."

Garad looked sharply at him, Elena swung around and Liel murmured, "So that was it. And I thought it was you trying to leave me," she told the baby.

"Gandalf," Garad explained. "We saw his spirit, too. Faramir and I, at the river. How far away is he now?"

"I don't know. Shadowfax might know." Pippin turned to the doorway, but could not see the horse.

"He left," Damrod said, sparing a glance from his scowling vigil over Denethor's sprawled and bloody form.

"Was Gandalf with you at Isengard?" Garad asked.

"Yes," Pippin replied, looking at Boromir expectantly. But the Man remained silent, his head still buried in his hands. "But he said he had other business, I think, back in Rivendell."

"Imladris," Garad translated.

"Oh, lovely!" Elena said with a heavy sigh.

"Even if e was crossing the Pelennor right now, he might come too late." Liel gave Pippin a faint smile of gratitude for thinking of it, nonetheless. Faramir gave a strangling gargle that sounded to Pippin's ears like the rusty hinges creaking on a door. "

"His breathing is worse!" Garad snapped, bending forward even as Boromir lurched to his feet..

"Where's my damned ice!" Liel fumed.

"It's a long way to the ice cellars," Elena said.

"We don't have time to wait," Liel sounded close to frantic.

"'Mir!" Boromir called and grabbed for his brother's arm, his other hand coming to rest on Faramir's brow.

Pippin knew that stance, too. Boromir did not have the Healer's skill that Aragorn possessed, but he had more, a direct link to his brother's heart.

Pippin's mind went back to the moment Boromir had died in Fangorn. Yet they had him back, though it had taken much magic. Then, with a great surge of excitement and hope, he remembered.

"The water!" he exclaimed, stepping close to Boromir even as he fished in his pocket. "It wasn't just Gandalf brought you back, Boromir! Treebeard's water kept you alive until Gandalf showed up. I still have some, Boromir! Right here!"

Boromir's head came around, his left hand leaving his brother's arm to reach for the flask Pippin held up to him.

"Will it be enough?" Pippin worried, wishing he had a barrel of it.

"It's powerful stuff," Boromir said and Pippin was heartened to see the hope that revitalized his exhausted friend.

"What is it?" Liel asked, looking over the baby in her arms.

"Water from Fangorn," Pippin repeated when Boromir didn't answer. The Man's attention was all for his brother. "It speeds healing."

"He can't swallow," Garad pointed out, moving toward to help regardless.

"It just takes a little," Pippin said, eagerly. "And you start on the outside."

"I'll hold his head steady, then." Very gently, Garad put one hand to Faramir's face, bracing him, the other drawing his chin up to expose the ugly, raw welt.

Boromir poured the precious liquid in a steady thin stream. Pippin held his breath. The only sound was Faramir's hoarse, whistling struggle for air. The red weal glistened more angrily beneath the water a moment, but then began to fade to pink.

Faramir's next breath, Pippin thought, might have come a fraction more easily. Pippin's eyes stung, staring hard, concentrating fiercely, willing the swelling to go down. Gradually, the rawness of the wound gave way to healing skin. Boromir tipped a few more drops, this time gently rubbed them in, massaging the throat with slow soft coaxing strokes.

"Easy, easy," Garad urged, whether to Boromir or Faramir Pippin wasn't sure.

Faramir moaned. Pippin breathed again. It was the clearest sound Pippin had heard from him.

Faramir coughed a little, then took a great shaking breath. His eyes opened and slowly, blearily focused on Boromir's face.

"Wh – wha ...?" he croaked.

Boromir smiled and sobbed at the same time.

"What ? " Faramir rasped, more clearly.

"Do not speak," Liel ordered, bending to him from Boromir's side, then sitting on the edge of the bed. That freed a hand, and she reached out to touch Faramir's face with a gentle caress. He smiled at her and the baby and she lowered her hand to make way for Boromir.

"Swallow," Boromir urged, holding the flask to his brother's torn lips. Pippin couldn't see Faramir's face, but could imagine the puzzlement that prompted Boromir's "Trust me."

Straining to listen, Pippin realized the room had gone utterly still. It was wonderful to no longer hear Faramir fighting desperately for every breath.

"More," Faramir said, and Pippin saw the Man had not only managed to drink, but was feeling the easing of the water. His voice already sounded much stronger.

Boromir's smile became a grin. Faramir lifted his head a little with Garad's assistance and Boromir fed him some more.

Faramir's good eye closed briefly in relief. "What... is... it?"

"Do. Not. Speak." Leil's command was brisk, but Pippin could see her hands shaking about the baby. "Is there enough for his legs?"

Boromir held up the container and shook it. "A few drops."

Liel sighed heavily. "Better than none."

"It works best from the inside," Pippin assured.

"Right," Boromir agreed, but he did not feed the last of the water to his brother Instead, Pippin saw him move the flask over Faramir's crooked hands. He steadied the bottle, aiming carefully for the completely shattered index and middle fingers of the right hand.

"Why did they do that?" Pippin asked, anguished.

Garad mimed someone pulling a bow. "An ordinary Ranger equals ten. To cripple Gondor's finest marksman..." he shrugged, grief and anger tightening his face and robbing him of more words.

Pippin swallowed hard. "Gandalf will come. He fixed Boromir's broken bones."

"If we take those trousers off while you're awake," Liel told Faramir, "we risk sending you into shock."

"Poppy?" Garad suggested.

"Gilraen root, I think," Liel answered. "Poppy brings dreams."


	18. Chapter 18

CHapter Eighteen

"Gilraen root, I think," Liel answered. "Poppy brings dreams."

"Don't move, you bastard!" Damrod snapped, making Pippin jump. Ciran adding, "Just give us a reason!"

Pippin turned about to see the Rangers glaring venomously down at Denethor who was beginning to come round, moaning through his bloodied lips.

"He already has," Boromir said softly and a chill went up Pippn's spine. "He is the Mouth of Sauron."

Boromir straightened and gave Pippin the flask. His dirty strained face went still in a way that frightened Pippin more than any angry outburst.

Boromir drew the dirk from its sheath at the small of his back. Pippin swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. The look in his friend's eyes as he regarded his father chilled Pippin to the core. Boromir drew a deep breath and took a step forward.

His eyes were ice, his jaw set so hard that the muscles jumped. Even in the middle of a savage fight, there was always warmth in Boromir's eyes, even in the worst moment of battle rage, some glimmer that gave reassurance to those he protected.

Not now.

Pippin wanted to be anywhere else, for the first time afraid in Boromir's presence. He stared at him, knew Boromir was about to kill his father. The Mouth of Sauron, Pippin corrected himself silently, turning aside to look at Faramir's broken hands, and drive away any compassion he might otherwise had felt for the bound and bloodied Denethor.

There came a thunder of hooves in the hallway. Shadowfax arrived at a gallop, bringing with him a warm halo of white light that spilled into the room, enveloping Pippin in soothing welcome. With a great breath of relief, he turned again, looked up, looked again, then cried, "Gandalf!"

"I am here," Gandalf smiled briefly down at him as he dismounted and gave Shadowfax a thank you scratch. But the wizard's eyes were sad and piercing as he stepped over Denethor and saw the knife in Boromir's hands. All Gandalf's attention fixed on Boromir and, sensing the building tension between them, Pippin remained stock still.

"Stand aside," Boromir said, his voice mild, even pleasant..

"It would be murder," Gandalf murmured.

"I must defend my family, my people!" Boromir snapped, anguish suddenly flooding back in pure heated fury. "It is my duty! Do you know what his madness almost cost us?"

"I know," Gandalf said. "And you are right. It is your decision, My Lord Steward. I leave him to you." He stepped aside.

Boromir continued slowly forward, his features set hard and cold again. He would do what he must. He would slit his semi-conscious father's throat in cold blood. But, as Gandalf moved, Boromir jerked to a halt, staring, startled downward. Pippin had not dared look, but now he did.

Denethor was huddled like a small child about himself. His hair was pure white, and his face lined with impossible age, completely wizened. He was muttering to himself in a sing-song voice, it sounded like a childhood rhyme. His dark grey eyes were as vacant as a mirrored pool.

"What have you done?" Boromir demanded.

"I?" Gandalf said. "Nothing. I found the thing that linked him to The Eye, and I removed it."

"The palantir?"

"Yes." Gandalf's voice was pained, and full of sympathy for Boromir. "The link with Sauron fed him power, and he gloried in it, fattened himself on it. Now it is gone, all in a rush. It has snapped his mind, and crushed his body. Boromir – your father will soon be dead without your hand."

"No," Boromir shook his head, lowered the knife and turned away. "My father died many years ago when he chose to join the enemy." He lifted his head, and levelled a keen glance at Gandalf. "You're sure?"

The Wizard nodded, "Before this day is gone."

"Very well," Boromir let out a heavy sigh and nodded to the Rangers. "Just get him out of my sight, lock him away." He turned and looked toward the bed, said in anguish, "'Mir? I'm sorry I didn't realize you were so badly hurt. I'd never have put you on a horse. "

Faramir shook his head slightly, his expression clearly saying that that was precisely why he had said nothing.

"Never," Boromir said harshly, "never hide your pain from me!"

Faramir tilted his head toward the baby in Liel's arms: "I knew," he said, disregarding the order she had given him so sternly.

"Gandalf, they tortured him," Pippin's voice cracked. "Please, can you heal him?"

"Why do you think Shadowfax summoned me here?" Gandalf told him with a gentle smile. He stepped up to the bed. Taking in Faramir's terrible injuries, he gave a pained sigh.

"Oh, my boy, you have endured much. Past time you were eased." Gandalf reached out a hand, held it Faramir's forehead a moment. A frown etched into the Wizard's face as he concentrated, hunting down every injury. Pippin heard Garad take a sharp breath, saw the Man brace with hopeful anticipation. Boromir looked more confident of the result.

The hand lowered, settled on Faramir's brow. "Steady, now," Gandalf urged softly. "I am weary. It will come slowly but surely."

An expectant hush fell over all in the room bar the baby who finally stopped suckling and gave a small burping sound. Liel lifted her to her shoulder and patter her back absently, all her attention for Faramir. White light flickered about Gandalf's fingers, narrowing to a beam that entered a spot above the bridge of Faramir's nose. Faramir's mouth twisted a little with the sensation coursing through him. The bruise that had swollen one eye shut vanished.

Pippin gasped exultantly. "It's working!"

He dropped his gaze to Faramir's torn throat. The faint mark left after the water's healing disappeared, leaving clean whole skin. Daring to hope, Pippin looked down at the Ranger's mangled hands. Slowly but surely, the fingers took on normal shape, the ugly shiny stretched and blackened flesh taking on healthy colour once more, the smashed bones straightening. Faramir flinched.

Pippin watched Liel and Boromir had already focused their attention on the Man's legs. There, the trouser material was no longer clinging and stained. Hesitantly, Boromir lifted the edge of one hem. He shared a smile with Liel and lifted the pants leg higher so that Garad and Elena too could see the scarred reddened flesh giving way to healing.

Gandalf gave a gusty exhalation and teetered back on his heels. Garad reached out to steady him. Gandalf's eyes opened, out of focus for a moment then he looked swiftly down at Faramir. "The evil taint blocks full healing for now, but it will come soon."

Faramir's eyes too, came open, wonderment and overwhelming disbelieving relief bordering on bliss radiant in his gaze..

"Thank you," Boromir's voice was so husky it was barely recognisable.

"You!" Gandalf gave a mock growl. "Bleeding again! I'm getting tired of patching up that leg!"

Boromir laughed and engulfed Gandalf in such a hug that the old wizard's eyebrows climbed high. Looking over Boromir's shoulders he caught sight of the baby in Liel's arms.

"And who is this pretty little one?" Gandalf asked.

"That's Boromir's daughter!" Pippin announced gleefully.

"Well, of course it is," Gandalf grumped. "Look at those curls. And those ears. She's the dead spit of Finduilas, except where she takes after her mother."

"Exactly what I think," Faramir put in, no doubt glad to have his voice back once more.

"It's her nose I like best," Boromir said, wiping his own nose with the back of his hand and sniffing to clear the moisture in his eyes.

"Her nose?" Pippin said in puzzlement.

"It's not like mine at all!" Boromir chuckled.

"Thank the Valar," Garad said. He reached down and, smiling relief, mussed Faramir's hair before coming round the bed to take a closer look himself, Elena at his side.

"So, what's her name?" Pippin prompted impatiently.

"Liramir," Liel said. Then to Boromir, "Sit down." She held out her hand to Boromir, bringing him to sit on the bed at Faramir's side.

"Beautiful jewel," Boromir translated. He lifted the shawl to smile down at his sleeping daughter. "It fits." He looked up into his wife's gentle eyes and said with great longing, "Let's go home."

"Home," Faramir nodded agreement.

"There is nothing I have wanted more, " Liel said, then added with the faintest tremor in her voice, "all these long months I imagined how you would look when I told you. It was never like this. I could not say it, down there, where they –" She pressed her lips hard together as she touched a tender hand to Faramir's face.

"It's all right, I'm here now. " Boromir kissed her lightly then held her closer, somehow avoiding disturbing their baby, who with her belly at last full, had fallen asleep.

++++ SCENE BREAK

"Good." Faramir moved to get up from the bed.

Boromir pushed him gently down. "You're not walking anywhere, Brother." Taking a step that put him at the head of the bed, he took hold of the sturdy rail that would allow him to lift the small bed like a stretcher.

"Garad," he commanded, with a nod toward the foot of the bed.

The big ranger came to the head of the bed instead, carefully pushing Boromir aside with elbow and hip.

"Standing order, Oh My Captain, or in your case, limping order, no carrying anything when you're bleeding," he explained. "You're too damned likely to drop it."

Boromir glanced down at his. "It's stopped," he protested.

Garad sighed heavily. "All the more reason to let us do this, unless there's any particular reason you want to re-open it and leave a blood trail?"

Faramir coughed deliberately, delicately, immediately riveting Boromir's attention along with Pippin's. With a lofted eyebrow and an expression that could only be described as scolding, Faramir tilted his head at Liel, drawing his brother's attention to where she sat, nodding over the child in her arms, her eyes half-closed and shadowed, her face etched with exhaustion.

Boromir took the hint immediately, surrendering Faramir to the care of his Rangers.

"Sleep for you," he said. "But not here."

She nodded agreement, and he lifted her from the chair, steadying her with an arm around her shoulders as she stood. Smiling down at his daughter, he reached out to feel the tiny feet wrapped in the swaddling bundle.

"How old is she?" he suddenly thought to ask, his smile becoming a frown of concern.

"I..." Liel frowned, her brow furrowing with her attempt to work it out. "What day is it?"

"Oh, boy," Garad muttered under his breath. Pippin too was shocked, and looked again at the stained dress. It was a nightgown, he realized, and she wore no shoes on her dirty feet.

Boromir rubbed his free hand over his eyes even as he pulled her gently against him. "How long did they have you captive?"

"What say is this?" she repeated, looking up at him with a thin smile.

Boromir's face tightened with anger and worry, and she added quickly, "Not long. They waited until after she was born."

"Three days this evening," Elena said flat and cold, one foot tapping angrily.

Shocked, Pippin realized that Boromir's wife could only have been taken prisoner direct from the birthing bed.

"What day is this?" Boromir repeated softly, pressing a kiss to his wife's temple. "This is a good day."

That won him a smile, and he kissed her cheek. Turning in his arm, she shifted the baby to her shoulder and raised her face to him. He obliged her request, and she kissed him back hungrily, as if unable to believe he was really there.

Pippin grinned at them and bounced on his toes. Then, as the kiss deepened, he looked away, giving them privacy. Faramir, however, continued to watch them, his entire world in his eyes, all he loved summed up in those three people. All the terrible things he had endured had been to protect this.

Then Faramir was being lifted and Pippin gaped, realising Garad and Ciran had simply picked up the bed, Man and all.

"I can walk," Faramir grumbled as Ciran and Damrod ignored the exasperated, pleading expression he tried to level at them.

"Two of a kind," Garad shook his head.

"Sadly, true," Ciran agreed. They took a step toward the door only to stop as Gandalf returned.

"You cannot walk on those feet. Not yet," Gandalf explained, 'The bones are still soft. It takes time for them to mend."

Boromir and Liel broke their kiss to frown from the Wizard to Faramir.

"I have a little Ent water with me," Gandalf said, hunting in a pocket of his beautiful white robe. "It will speed the bones knitting."

"I am healing," Faramir said, his voice sounding much smoother. "Save it for others."

"In this I will be selfish," Boromir said firmly, "We need more for your hands, Faramir."

Gandalf nodded solemn agreement, and added, "I will hear no protests. None have so well earned whatever we have for healing. Besides," the wizard added with a wink, "I know Quickbeam and one of his friends are on their way here with barrels of the stuff."

"They are?" Boromir blinked. "I had asked, but Treebeard said they had to talk about it." He rolled his eyes. "I didn't have a year or two to wait for the answer."

Pippin snorted amused sympathy and Boromir, meeting his gaze, broke into a great smile.

"He did promise," Pippin put in. "He said he would collect some for you, for his..." he paused for dramatic effect and turned to watch Faramir before adding, "His Little One."

Faramir and Garad erupted in snorting laughter.

"Fine," Boromir said, flipping the index and middle fingers of his right hand at them, in a gesture of defiance Pippin now understood. Boromir turned again to Liel. "Then, this present supply is for your hands."

"Her Grace will also need it," Gandalf said, offering the small flask to Liel.

"A sip only," She shook her head, studying Boromir's wounded leg. "And the blood I see on your leg? Another arrow wound? It pains you though you would hide it from us. And you lecture your brother!"

Gandalf sighed, handing the flask of water to Boromir. "I leave you decide, but I sense your weariness. If you would enjoy dinner before sleep, may I recommend you try this first."

He took out another flask, this one made of crystal and containing a crimson coloured liquid.

"Miruvor!" Boromir exclaimed with evident relief. "Thank you. I had indeed been wondering how many of us might yet drown in our soup bowls."

Gandalf snorted and handed it over. "Just one swallow will do it."

"I know." Boromir drank, then gave it to Liel. She eyed it curiously, studying Boromir's reaction to the elixir. She saw the strain and pallor of exhaustion fade from Boromir's face, as Pippin knew she would, just as it had after he and Aragorn had ploughed a path for them all through a massive snow bank.

Boromir shrugged. "Naught but a scratch. A few kisses will make it all better. That is, after I kiss you better."

"A scratch!" Pippin exclaimed in disbelief. "But the Orcs tortured you with – "

Catching Boromir's warning glance, he fell silent.

"Mere horseplay," Boromir said nonchalantly, waving the comment away.

"I believe you, My Lord," Liel said and it took a moment for Pippin to notice she was speaking to him. "And I will hear your full story. Later." She looked up, once more stern, to regard Gandalf. "Denethor?"

"Locked in his bedroom, under guard by your good Ranger Damrod, the Giliath, and my spells."

She looked down at her child, then back to the Wizard. "And our daughter? Did he…. Was she brought under the eye?"

"No," Gandalf assured her, with a touch to the sleeping child that was somehow more reassuring than his words. Boromir stepped even closer to her, his arm tightening around her.

"So you were right, Faramir," she sighed "Denethor had one of the Seven Seeing Stones of Numenor."

"I caught a glimpse once, when I was small, before he could hide it. Another reason why he hated me, I think."

Pippin frowned down at Boromir's wounded brother, unable to comprehend such calculating cruelty from a father to his son. And now it seemed, it had been going on since Faramir was a boy…. But Faramir was still young, and so was Boromir, and the realization made him remember Denethor's hair turning white so suddenly, which made him think of Bilbo, then, in alarm, of Frodo.

Would the same thing happen to him when he destroyed the Ring? Would he be turned into a broken shell? He looked questioningly up at Gandalf who was following along behind the bed, Shadowfax whickering softly to him. The Wizard didn't notice his look, and Pippin decided to leave it for another time.

"Pippin?" Boromir said, pausing until they drew level. "What is it?"

"I…. It's nothing."

Boromir raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Denethor and the palantir makes you wonder about the Ring and Frodo?"

Pippin nodded.

"Frodo said it tried to kill me when I refused it," Boromir reminded him with a smile, "It failed, as it failed to gain my corruption. The Ring did not harm Bilbo, did it?"

Gandalf was listening keenly now, but he seemed happy to allow Boromir to answer his concerns.

Pippin thought a moment, then said slowly, "His hair was white when we saw him again in Rivendell, but really, it should have been that way years and years ago. He's one hundred and eleven, after all. So, no, it didn't harm him, it gave him long life."

"It did," Boromir said, "And more importantly, it did him no harm when he let it go."

"That's true," Pippin said, smiling up at his tall friend. "The years just caught up with him, he was fine otherwise."

"Exactly," Boromir said. "My father chose to serve Sauron. That is why he suffers. Put this worry from your mind, my friend."

Leaving Pippin with a squeeze on his shoulder and a smile, Boromir walked on ahead, rejoining Liel, who seemed in an understandable hurry to get her charges safely home at last.

"Boromir refused the Ring?" Gandalf said to Pippin. "Ahh, yes, of course, I remember now. On Caradhras, that was well done."

"No," Pippin said. "Not there. Well, I mean, yes, that too, but more."

Gandalf shook his head. "And that rambling is meant to tell me what exactly Peregrin Took?"

"Boromir beat It again, when he tried to keep Frodo from falling into the river and the Ring trapped them in the rapids," Pippin said proudly, seeing Gandalf's eyebrows climb. Aware Garad and Faramir also were listening, Pippin was puzzled when they only smiled as if they already knew all about it. Then he realized happily, Frodo would have told them the story.

"Frodo can't swim," Boromir explained for Liel who was blinking at him in surprise. This was the first time she had heard of the river rescue, Pippin realised.

"You've always told me how impressed you are by my ability to stay afloat no matter what I'm doing," Boromir added cheekily, succeeding in easing her frowning expression to a smile.

Faramir snorted. "According to Frodo, floating had nothing to do with it."

"Yes," Garad picked up his Captain's lead, "Frodo had much to say of your... ingenuity that day, Oh My General."

Liel shook her head and rolled her eyes.

"Frodo?" she asked Faramir. "One of the Halflings you were protecting?"

"Yes," Faramir replied, his expression suddenly becoming serious. "The Ringbearer, and his friend, Samwise Gamgee."

"I swore to protect him..." Boromir said darkly. "And instead he and Sam face Mordor alone."

Pippin huffed a breath in exasperation, and opened his mouth to tell Boromir the truth of the matter, but Faramir got there first.

"According to Frodo," Faramir corrected firmly, "he lives because you were willing to die for him."

"I was not the only one," Boromir murmured.

"So," Liel returned her attention to her husband. "You and Frodo, in the rapids?" The last word was given tart emphasis.

"When did this happen?" Gandalf said sharply.

"There was no time to tell you," Pippin apologized. "About a week before you found us in Fangorn, the Orcs attacked when we were carrying the boats around the rapids, and Frodo fell into the river. But Boromir jumped in after him, wounded and all. He held him up out of the icy water until we could reach them, which was much later in the day."

"I see," Gandalf said. "This was the arrow wound in the arm, then? It was older that the thigh wound."

"Later?" Boromir prompted, his arm about Liel and his eyebrows lowered.

Hearing the pleading in his friend's tired voice, Pippin subsided.

"Later then," Gandalf said, disgruntled. "And in detail."

Boromir muttered a half-voiced curse that made Faramir smile, which in turn made Pippin feel much more cheerful.

"Later," Garad sniggered, looking direct down onto Faramir's upturned face from where he was carrying the head of the bed. Faramir returned the mischievous glance with interest. The two were planning to have some fun at Boromir's expense, Pippin thought with a grin, wondering who would win.

Faramir looked much better, the pain lines no longer etched deeply and his face not so white. He looked tired, but not drained, the healing and the Elven elixir had given him a boost at least for the moment.

They walked a little further and Boromir stopped by a door guarded by the older Ranger and some of the Giliath.

"I should check –" he said.

"You need not," Gandalf cut him off, and Pippin was surprised and moved by the concern in the Wizard's tone and gaze. "You have already given over enough of your time to matters of duty, Boromir. Go, return home now with your family. I can well manage Denethor. I will remain a while, until he is delivered safely to Mandos."

"Good. We don't need the enemy having another Nazgul." Boromir hesitated nonetheless, torn as he stood watching the door, no doubt remembering a Man and a father Faramir had never known.

Garad, approaching with the laden bed, gave him a nod toward Liel and the baby who waited a little way further down the hall. "We have this watch, My Captain. You need to care for your three Little Ones." He grinned as Faramir, doing a quick head count, realised he was included.

Faramir rolled his eyes, then bracing himself, lifted his right hand and raised the two middle fingers at his Lieutenant.

"Yes!" Garad exclaimed.

"What?" Boromir turned about, reacting to the elation in Garad's cry.

"Your brother just flipped me off," Garad announced, his grin lighting his face.

"You did?" Boromir stumbled a little as he turned quickly to come to Faramir's side.

Faramir smiled smugly, very pleased with himself. Then he repeated the gesture at his brother and Boromir laughed and mussed Faramir's dirty hair.

"Keep that up, and I'll wash your mouth out with beer," he threatened cheerfully.

Faramir laughed. "Bring it on!"

"Do not stress your hands," Liel ordered. "Did you not hear Gandalf tell you the bones were still soft in their mending?!"

With a contrite look, Faramir settled his hands and himself back on his pillows.

"Not long now, 'Mir," Boromir told him fondly. "We're almost home."

++++ SCENE BREAK

"This is a very big house," Pippin observed, suddenly feeling tired and hungry. "How far is it to yours?"

"One floor up and one wing over," Boromir answered.

"Wing?" Pippin asked.

"Other side, corner," Garad explained.

"Oh." Pippin yawned.

"Don't worry, Pippin," Boromir said. "Gandalf knows where it is."

Pippin yawned again. "Good."

"Will the horse be coming back with him?" Elena asked.

Garad shrugged and looked to Boromir who, yawning himself, had not heard the exchange. "Wait and see. We can always get some hay up here."

Garad described more of their surroundings with pride but Pippin was nonetheless glad when it was, as promised, not a long way from Denethor's part of the building to that housing his sons.

"Home," Boromir said as they rounded another corner, and a great happy weariness filled his voice. He yawned widely, then shook his head.

"Sleep for you, too, 'Nin," Liel said, frowning in concern at him.

"I'm fi-ine," he assured, but spoiled it by yawning again.

"Oh, I can see that," Liel said. "How long were you in the saddle?"

When Boromir didn't answer, Pippin volunteered, "Three days and two nights, non-stop. I slept, but he didn't."

"And no saddle," Garad put in. "He rode bareback from Isengard."

"Pippin!" Boromir begged. "And how could you know?"

"Shadowfax told me you never slept," Pippin said. "He was worried about you."

"So now you can talk to horses?" Boromir growled.

"Only The Lord of the Mearas," Pippin said smugly making Boromir splutter a laugh.

Boromir stepped to one side and Pippin saw a small group of people stood flanking the walls, waiting to greet them. There were two elderly women wearing white aprons, and one grey haired Man in an elaborate coat of black, edged with silver and gold, and more elderly Men, dressed in the formal regalia of soldiers of Gondor.

All came to sudden attention, the soldiers crossing their long weapons with a clash of metal in a martial salute. They were some kind of spear with a blade at the top shaped a little like an axe.

The eldest Man called out in a voice that rolled down the hall, "Her Grace, Aglariel, Princess of Osgiliath! Lord Boromir, Captain-General, and Warden of the White Tower! Lord Faramir, Captain-General of the Ranger Guards of Ithilien! And Lords and Lady all. Welcome home!"

"It is good to see you!" Boromir answered, waving the Men out of their rigid stance. "Especially you, my dear, Beth!"

"It's true!" the chubbiest and oldest of the apron-clad women replied, daring to step forward. "You're home!"

Then seeing the arriving stretcher, her happiness vanished and she said, "You're hurt, Faramir? I mean, My Lord! We were told –"

"You know there are no Lords here, Beth," Boromir chided. "Not in our home. And don't fret, Faramir is –"

"Already well mended," Faramir finished for himself as he was carried closer. He hurriedly tucked his still healing fingers beneath a cloak and winced as he moved his legs in an effort to hide his bruised toes.

"But we heard ... " Beth stumbled over her words, her hands twisting in her apron. "They said..."

"Oh, they exaggerate!" Faramir said with casual reassurance and a careful shrug. It was the exact same tone of voice and nonchalant mannerism he had seen Boromir use, Pippin noted with amusement. "But I do have a bit of a sore throat... I don't suppose you have some honey custard? That might help soothe it," Faramir suggested, making Garad snort.

"As you see, your Fara-Bear is home," Boromir looked from Beth to his brother with a laughing grin.

"And so is your Baby Oliphant," Faramir countered with a smirk. Garad and Ciran gave a trumpeting noise that startled Pippin then made him laugh. He could just imagine the small child Boromir charging up and down these halls, probably with toy sword and shield in hand, making enough noise to equal a herd of oliphants.

"Where is the welcome feast?" Boromir asked, finishing the job of thoroughly distracting the old woman from her worry.

"I –" Beth looked flustered, completely forgetting Faramir's mysterious injuries just as he had intended. "We have prepared food, but – well...l" " She looked at them with some impatience, " It would have been more had we had more notice."

"I am sure it will be more than we need," Liel said. "These two would have forgotten to eat and never grown to manhood without you, Beth."

Pippin thought that might be true for Faramir, but he could not imagine Boromir ever forgetting to eat. On the other hand, when he was preoccupied caring for someone else...

Beth blushed at the compliment and bowed. "Thank you, Your Grace. Is the little one all right? We were told the birthing had not gone well ..."

"Disregard any word that came from Denethor. My Lord Consort is the Steward now." Liel's chin came up, a fierce gleam of pride radiant in her tired eyes as she looked at her husband and the father of her child.

"Nice to have it official!" Garad said.

"Oh!" Beth breathed, her hands clasping together yet again.

"About time," Faramir muttered happily.

The servants' jaws had done a united drop of surprise followed by delighted smiles, their gazes going from Liel to Boromir. He took her in his arms, grinning broadly, then kissed her. About them the group repeated their salute, the proclomation changing to "Boromir, Steward of Gondor and Aglariel, Lady of Gondor!"

"An honest Man at last," Garad quipped to Faramir. But Faramir did not have a return joke, nor did he even seem to have heard, drinking in the sight he had so long awaited.

"Boromir and Faramir, Stewards of Gondor," Boromir corrected, with a glance at his brother that brooked no argument. "So it has always been, and so it shall be now, until the King lend his grace to it or strike our House from the office of Steward."

Faramir sighed, Liel kissed Boromir, and everyone else raised another clashing cheer. Somehow, through it all, the exhausted baby continued to sleep.

"The little one," Beth asked, when all had paused to take a breath. "Does she have a name yet?"

"Liramir," Boromir answered, the grin spreading to light his eyes with joy.

"Our beautiful jewel," Beth cooed, looking for permission then reaching a hand to lift a corner of the cloth that swaddled her head. "She is well?"

"She is." Liel smiled down at her sleeping daughter, angling her arms a little so Beth could see the tiny face.

"She's back in her mother's arms where she belongs," Beth sighed. "She's sleeping so sweetly... I am so glad you're both all right. They wouldn't let me see you, or Faramir."

Liel nodded. "We are safe but very weary."

Beth bowed and stepped back. Pippin knew she was itching to ask to hold the baby, but knew just as well this was not the time. After enduring a forced separation Liel would not surrender that baby to anyone other than closest family any time soon.

The grey-haired servant stepped to one side and opened double doors that had been hidden at his back. Boromir and Liel lef the way and they entered a large dining room. To Pippin's eyes it was huge but Garad assured him it was small for Men of such high rank. There were bedrooms to either side, the one to the left Boromir's and Liel's, the other Faramir's.

Pippin had eyes for little other than the steaming food piled on platters on the highly polished red wood table in the center of the room. There were large ornate windows in the rear wall, no doubt framing a magnificent view from so high in the city. Boromir said something to the servants and they all bowed and left, two carrying some of the food away.

"He likes to serve himself," Garad explained, "And he's sent some food to the Men on guard." He looked to Faramir and asked, "Where?"

"Food, of course!" Faramir declared.

"Your wish is our command, Oh My Captain," Garad grinned, and indicated to Ciran that they should head for the table.

There, Faramir began to push himself up to go to a chair. Boromir moved quickly if stiffly closer and lay a staying hand to his brother's shoulder.

"Nice try," Boromir said with a lowered eyebrow.

He tilted his head to Garad and Ciran who immediately lay Faramir's stretcher across several chairs parallel to the table. Ciran emerged from Faramir's bedroom, his arms laden with pillows. Boromir fussed over his brother shamelessly, assisting Ciran and Garad in propping Faramir carefully amid the small mountain of cushioning. After a exasperated sigh or two, Faramir submitted happily enough.

Boromir took another pillow and expertly arranged it atop a dining chair, then bowed and waved to Pippin.

Liel and Elena reappeared from the left hand bedroom. Pippin could not help but stare. The Princess of Osgiliath had been sternly beautiful even ragged and distressed. Now, with her black hair brushed and braided, her face washed, wearing a dark blue gown belted high under her breasts, and with her child cradled in the crook of her right arm, she was truly lovely. She took her place next to Boromir's chair, standing at the head of the table.

Smiling at him, she asked, "Would you do us the honour of dining with us tonight, My Lord?"

Pippin blinked. "Ahh, I am no lord," He hesitated, trying to remember, then said, "Your Grace?"

Leaving Faramir and passing Pippin as he went to join his wife, Boromir squeezed Pippin's shoulder. "In Gondor, the first born son of the Thain of the Shire is indeed a Lord."

Pippin's jaw dropped. "Oh." He sat down awkwardly.

Boromir made to assist Liel to her seat and held out his hands to take his daughter. Liel raised an eyebrow, pointedly glancing down at his wounded leg, and with another, quite different sort of smile, gestured with her chin at the chair beside hers. Boromir's eyebrows rose but he obeyed, sitting down and settling himself nervously.

"Wash your hands, " Elena ordered, appearing at his a bowel of steaming water, soap and towels. She set the bowl down on the table and draped one of the snowy white towels over his shoulder.

Pippin saw that Faramir, watching as his brother's hands disappeared into the steaming water, flinched and swallowed hard, looking quickly away.

"Ahh...." Garad sighed in happy anticipation. "Me next."

There were some things that were better than food, Pippin decided, for once not interested in the food in front of him. The room was utterly quiet, everyone watching and waiting.

Then, at last, Boromir cradled his daughter in his arms. The look on his face was one of dawning awe and tenderness mixed with a dumbfounded expression that was as amusing as it was touching. Liel bent and kissed him on the top of the head. He looked up at her, the morning in his smile. She sat down beside him, her arm around the back of his chair, her hand resting against his shoulder blade.

Waiting until the gathered guests were seated, she raised her cup and said, "A toast."

There was only cider in her glass Pippin noted, others had red wine, or in Garad and Boromir's and his own case tankards of beer. It seemed it came in pints here, too.

"Gondor," Liel said, everyone repeating solemnly.

"The Shire," Boromir offered a second toast, expertly holding the baby in the crook of one arm as he tilted his goblet in a salute to Pippin.

"The Fellowship." Pippin said, when they all waited expectantly.

Boromir held Pippin's gaze as he repeated with pride and hope, "The Fellowship."

"Our new Princess!" Elena added, claiming her prerogative as First Companion. Sturdy mugs and fine-stemmed goblets were drained and refilled, and after that everyone simply ate for all were ravenously hungry.

Boromir had obviously had had much practice in eating one handed, Pippin noticed. It reminded him of how Boromir had cradled him, sleeping, atop Shadowfax while at a full gallop. Liel sat so close that her body touched his, and she could easily put a hand on her child, too. After a some few minutes, mother and father both noticed the baby becoming restive. Boromir left off eating to rock her a little, but she remained unsettled.

"Rations," Garad told Boromir, chewing a mouthful of roast chicken and potatoes. "You don't' have 'em. Not for her."

Liel snorted a laugh. "He's right, Mirnin. Hand her over. She didn't take much, she was too tired."

Boromir gave a telling glance to her swollen bosom and obeyed. Then, to Pippin's amusement, as Liel fed the baby under her nursing shawl, Boromir fed her, very much enjoying lifting each loading each forkful and insisting she ate while the food was hot.

The doors came open abruptly, startling everyone, especially Pippin who could not see with his back turned, and wondered who would dare. Then he heard Gandalf saying cheerfully,

"Food! Good, I am hungry. You have done wonders as ever, dear Beth."

"And it is excellent food," Garad said, looking up to the woman behind the wizard.

"Yes, thank you, Beth, and your staff," Liel said.

"I have the honey custard," she said, bobbing politely to all present as she approached Faramir, "With honey sauce."

Faramir looked a little embarrassed. "I didn't mean for you to... You shouldn't have put yourself out, Beth!"

Shyly, she brushed her free hand over his hair. "After all you've been through? Hush, now, and enjoy." She put the dish down on the table at his side and made to leave. Carefully using his still healing right hand, he held it palm up to her, and she placed her fingers gently on it. He kissed her hand, making her blush bright red and beam a great smile as she hurried from the room.

"All is well, I take it?" Boromir asked Gandalf, suddenly tense, all his attention fixed on the wizard, not even noticing his brother's actions.

Gandalf nodded solemnly, his piercing blue eyes studying Boromir closely. "Denethor's spirit has safely left this world."

Pippin swallowed hard, and was sure he could be plainly heard in the abrupt silence.

Boromir and Gandalf remained locked in silent communication for a long moment. Then Boromir glanced quickly to his brother who gave a brisk nod. Boromir looked down at his unsteady hands and said simply, "Good." He picked up his fork and resumed feeding himself and his wife and everyone about the table took their cue from him.

When everyone finished their main course and began discussing who wanted which of the various cakes and pastries beautifully arrayed in the middle of the table, Pippin thought it safe to ask, "Where's Shadowfax?"

Gandalf leaned over a little and winked. "Gone to talk with the horses of the Tower Guardsmen. He says some are his distant cousins."

"Oh. Good," Pippin accepted the huge piece of apple pie Elena handed over to him "Thank you."

"They're back, then?" Boromir said, getting half way to his feet. "I should really –"

"You should really get some sleep," Gandalf cut him off brusquely.

"Exactly," Liel tugged at Boromir's sleeve and lifted a reproving eyebrow.

"Captain Aradan is speaking with the young man who led them out, and seeing them properly settled," Gandalf reported. "Also, filling them in on … events here while they were gone. Your Guardsmen have happily taken up station guarding the prisoners rounded up in the square this morning. I did mention that their Stewards would be wanting to question them, tomorrow."

Boromir sighed heavily, but nodded thanks. The implication was clear that there would be those who would otherwise have found it difficult not to exact retribution when they learned what had been done to Boromir's family.

"We will have some questions," Boromir agreed. "But their fate will be left to the King's justice." He lifted some strawberries and cream to his mouth, for the moment not registering the shocked silence.

"That would be the Ranger of Arnor," Faramir said, looking a little smug when Boromir reacted with surprise at his knowledge, "Aragorn."

"Frodo and Sam told you?" Boromir remembered, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. It seemed the miruvor was beginning to wear off, hardly surprising as the elixir had not been meant to keep someone on their feet without sleep indefinitely.

"Garad and I, yes."

"Then, it's true?" Liel asked, lifted her head away from smiling at her child. For the first time since meeting her, Pippin saw genuine surprise and dawning hope in her grey eyes. "The king returns as Faramir foresaw?"

Boromir leaned over and kissed her brow. "Exactly as he foresaw." He turned to look direct into his brother's eyes. "The book in his hands, was from the library in Imladris. The tapestry at my back, of Isildur taking up his father's sword, all there. And he does have intense blue eyes. He is a good Man, a great Man, I am proud to be his friend."

"I didn't know it would be Imladris," Faramir said, a little awed.

"Well," Boromir added, sounding disgruntled, "I didn't know who I was meeting at the time for he would not reveal himself to me when I asked. He merely said he was friend to Gandalf."

Gandalf cleared his throat. "That was probably my fault. We were expecting Denethor. I asked Aragorn to... stay out of the way until the Council was called." He met Boromir's eyes with a twinkle of amusement. "I fear you rather took him by surprise."

"But that was before, Boromir," Pippin said.

"Before what?" Garad wanted to know.

"Before he learned from a friend how to be a king," Gandalf said quietly, and he looked squarely at Boromir.

"So... .where is he?" Garad asked. "How soon can we expect him? Will he be here to direct the battle?"

"I'm not sure," Boromir answered, shifting uncomfortably and not meeting Garad's eyes.

"He's gone to get us an army," Pippin explained.

"The Rohirrim?" Faramir asked.

"Already on their way," Boromir said. "King Theoden left to Marshall all to Dunharrow as Pippin and I rode out.

"Surely, there is no other?" Liel prompted.

"There is one other," Gandalf answered matter-of-fact, "The Oath-Breakers."

Garad put his tankard down with a thump that spilled beer onto the polished tabletop.

"The Army of the Dead!" He traded a dismayed expression with Faramir who had gone very still.

"That settles that," Liel said, flatly. "Gondor must continue to stand alone."

"He will be here!" Boromir insisted. "I have given him my fealty, and he his oath to defend our people!"

"Boromir..." Faramir said quietly. "I do not doubt his intention. But no one has ever returned alive from the beneath the Dimholt. You know that."

"Only the dead may enter," Garad said bleakly.

"Not true," Gandalf explained. "There is one who may enter safely, call the army to him, and return. Elendil's heir. The High King of Gondor and Arnor. Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

"Yet, he must have the sword," Liel reminded them.

"The sword of Elendil is no more than broken shards," Faramir managed, his voice rasping but steady. "In Imladris."

"I saw it, there," Pippin said, over his second slice of apple pie. "So did Boromir."

"I did more than see it," Boromir said with a wry smile, "I picked it up and cut my finger on its blade."

Faramir spluttered on a mouthful of food and the entire group began to get to their collective feet, eyeing him worriedly, Faramri said, "I'm fine! You what?"

"Cut myself on it," Boromir repeated, sounding smug. "It is still as sharp as the day it was forged." He paused. "Then, I dropped it."

Garad snorted. Faramir instinctively lifted his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, then blinked pleased surprise that he had managed it without difficulty.

"Then, if it is there… " Liel said. "And not with your friend… we're done."

"Gandalf?" Boromir looked to him.

"He has it," the wizard said, after gulping down a large bite of fruit pastry. "I personally saw it reforged and delivered to his hand."

Into the astonishment following that revelation, he met Faramir's eyes and added apologetically, "Thus I was delayed in returning here. I am sorry, both for what happened to you and Her Grace in the last two days, Faramir, and also that I did little through all these years. You were right, about the palantir."

"Had you done anything at that time," Boromir said, "it would probably have brought civil war upon us."

"True."

"He will be here," Pippin chimed in. "He found us after the Orcs took us. Ran for three days non-stop."

"To Aragorn, Lord of Eriador, High King of Gondor and Arnor!" Garad lifted his tankard in happy salute.

"Aragorn!" all returned the toast.

"Only one question remains," Liel said. "When? We face battle soon. Where is he now?"

"I watched him enter the mountain but yesterday," Gandalf admitted. "I know no more."

Boromir drew a breath between his teeth. "It is a long way to bring an army, even an army that does not need to be fed. And he will gather more Men to him as he travels, for even the army of the dead may not be enough to avail us against Sauron's thousands." He lifted his gaze to each of his companions in turn and said, "We must hold until he arrives. "

"We will hold," Faramir said firmly.

"There will be much work on the morrow," Liel said. "First, food and rest. And full healing for you, Faramir." She stood and lay the baby over her shoulder, patted her back, and there was a soft burp.

Elena got to her feet. "Ciran," she said, clearing her throat pointedly as she looked at Garad, "Come help me with the cradle."

Garad simply shrugged and smiled up at her, unapologetically helping himself to more potatoes and adding them to the plate that already held his apple pie. Elena and Ciran went into Liel and Boromir's bedchamber, and returned with a beautifully carved wooden cradle. It was fitted with a lace coverlet over its small mattress. They put it down between Liel and Boromir.

"Let me," Boromir said. He took his drowsy daughter and kissed her.

"Boromir?" Faramir said, sounding suddenly much younger. "I haven't seen her yet, not properly."

Pippin suddenly and horribly knew how and when Faramir would first have seen his niece – when she had been brought forward as a hostage to allow his capture.

Boromir turned, smiling as he carried the baby closer and Faramir added with longing in his eyes, "There's plenty of room for her to sleep here for a little while." One hand patted his stomach and the small mountain of pillows gathered about him on the bed. "My hands are strong enough to hold her now, right, Gandalf?"

The old wizard nodded. "Of course. She's just a little thing."

"Time to go to Uncle Faramir," Boromir told his daughter and carefully settled her into Faramir's reaching arms.

Garad, plate in hand, stood and hooked his chair closer to Faramir, then sat so he could enjoy the meeting.

Faramir touched a finger to the tiny hand curled about the baby blanket. "She's beautiful." His tired face broke into a grin that flooded him with light and life. "My niece!"

Boromir lay a hand to his brother's shoulder and squeezed, too choked it seemed, to speak. Liel sat watching them, her fingers curled against her lips, her eyes bright, gleaming with emotion. Boromir stood a long moment, watching his brother hold his daughter.

"I'm going to give her a pony," Faramir informed Boromir. "What do you think? A paint? A chestnut?"

Boromir laughed. "How about we let her choose?"

"Yeah," Garad said, waving his laden fork. "I'll herd 'em together and whichever one she wants to chew on is hers."

"Uncle Theodred will be so impressed," Faramir chuckled.

"I hope he's all right," Boromir said, suddenly reminded and casting a questioning look at Gandalf.

"He's healing well," Gandalf reported. "Though he's not well enough to ride with his Eored."

"Wounded?" Garad asked.

"Badly," Boromir said darkly. "Gandalf and Aragorn saved him."

Garad's brows rose. "Seems they've been busy."

The baby's index and middle fingers closed about Faramir's forefinger, making him grin anew. "Look at that! Just look at that! She's got an archer's grasp already!"

Boromir snorted. "There's no doubt who's niece you are!"

Faramir looked up to share the moment with Boromir who squeezed his shoulder again and gave him an intense look of gratitude. Pippin knew he was thanking him for the protection he had given as best he could while imprisoned with Liel, and simply for being who he was, despite all the odds against it.

"Now," Gandalf said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "If I might have the full story of Frodo's and Boromir's fall into the river, and the attack made by The Ring? When did Frodo leave?"

"Two days after the river at Amon Hen," Boromir said.

"Three," Pippin corrected. "I think you lost track, you were so sick."

Boromir nodded acceptance and gave him a smile as he added, "Frodo and Sam would not have escaped the enemy but for Merry and Pippin's bravery."

Gandalf's brows climbed as he regarded his small friend. "Then, I owe more thanks than I knew. You make me proud."

"Who's Merry?" Liel asked, amused by Pippin's stunned pleasure.

"Pippin's cousin," Boromir said, as Pippin seemed to have lost his voice.

"Well, if we're talking about who's brave," Pippin recovered to say, "we wouldn't be alive if you hadn't fought them for us, Boromir, even though you were too sick to stand."

"Leapt from your death bed, according to Frodo and Sam," Garad smirked at Boromir's exasperated roll of the eyes.

"More like crawled," Pippin said, frowning over the memory.

"Indeed, pneumonia would keep most down," Gandalf agreed.

Pippin nodded. "He was in the water a long time to keep Frodo safe."

"And he was already wounded," Garad put in, eyeing Pippin in a way that reminded him happily of Merry.

Pippin realized Garad knew the story and between the two of them, they could make sure Boromir did not gloss over any of his heroics. Faramir was, at least for the moment, completely engrossed in studying his diminutive niece who still had her tiny fingers curled about his forefinger.

"The arm, or the leg, or both?" Gandalf asked, his lips twitching and his blue eyes sparkling. "I take it the broken ribs were a result of the fall?'

"No, that was –"

"Enough!" Boromir growled, keeping his voice down for fear of waking the baby. "I do not see the need for this. We are here and safe." He covered Liel's hand with his own.

"I do apologize, Boromir," Gandalf said, softly, "However, it is vital I know what information the enemy might have gleaned from this accident."

"I also would like to know," Liel put in. "How much Sauron knows of us, through palantir and Ring, both."

There was a moment's silence, and Pippin said, humble and yet bold, "Boromir showed The Eye it could be told no."

"That's what Frodo said," Garad agreed and he lifted his tankard in salute to his Captain-General.

"I had but a brief exposure to its temptations, its so cunning voice," Faramir said, not looking up but stroking softly at the baby's wispy curls. "I cannot imagine enduring months." He sighed and lifted his eyes to meet his brother's gaze. "It was my dream drew us all into this. I thought I should have gone to Imladris."

"Faramir—" Boromir began.

"I was wrong," Faramir finished. "You have called our King home to us, Boromir, and woven our fate into that of the Shire. They are a most valiant people, your Hobbit friends."

"Indeed," Boromir said and the stern and worried set of his face melted to a smile.

"More importantly," Faramir continued, "only your stubborn will and rock solid head could have held the Ring at bay so long." He looked back down at the baby and told her, "That's your Dada , the hardest head in all Gondor."

"I hadn't thought of it like that, Faramir," Gandalf said amid the round of snorts that comment provoked. "But I do believe you are right. About Aragorn, at least."

"I just hope this King of ours gets here in time," Garad said. He eyed Boromir gravely. "My Men and I saw a lot of activity in the Orc camps as we skirted about them. They are building with all the mad frenzy of an upturned anthill. Siege towers, ballista, and worse, some kind of huge battering ram made of metal and mounted on a giant wooden sling."

Boromir shrugged. "There is much to be done."

"I have had pitch barrels placed on the ramparts close by the gates, and made other preparations. As per your orders," Liel said. "All in secret, of course." She looked to Boromir. "Elena and I can give you the full report, tomorrow."

"I thank you both."

"Forgive me, but I must know," Gandalf said. "The Ring showed great cunning, trapping you and Frodo in the midst of the rapids, Boromir. There, it could attack your mind as the cold sickness set in. How exactly did it try you? What is the mind of our Enemy when he regards the Captain-General of Gondor?"

"It told me I could be warm again. I knew nothing at that moment, but cold. All I wanted was to be warm."

"And if you let Frodo go, you could swim ashore," Gandalf concluded.

Boromir nodded, his eyes downcast, studying his entwined fingers.

"You had done all you could to save him, had risked your life for him," Gandalf continued, "but, overcome by cold and your wounds, had lost him to the river at the last. None need ever know the full truth."

Boromir's chin came up, his eyes wide as he regarded the Wizard. "You heard It?"

Gandalf nodded. "I have heard It many times. I know It's ways, It's treachery. I have been hard-pressed. You should not have been able to break free. How did you win?"

"I heard Faramir call to me," Boromir said softly. "He needed my help. He was drowning."

"Faramir was …?" the Wizard.

"I saw I had my hands about Frodo's throat, pushing him down, I …." He shivered hard and suddenly opened his hands. His voice broke to a choked rasp.

"Frodo told me you called my name," Faramir cut in, soft yet compelling in the silence.

"Between us we put it together."

Pippin, transfixed, watched as Faramir turned from his brother to Gandalf, and said, "I was very young, just learning how to swim. Denethor tried to drown me, just as the Ring tried to make Boromir drown Frodo ."

Over Pippin's shocked gasp, Gandalf said, "Then, Sauron was his own undoing. Drawing Denethor into a web of cruelty was a forewarning to you, Boromir, that came to your aid when most needed."

Boromir sighed. "Perhaps. But …."

"But, it is apparent to me," Gandalf continued as if Boromir had said nothing, "that you had already begun to win, even before that memory came to you."

"What?" Boromir sat blinking at him.

"If not, Frodo would surely be dead. How long does it take for a trained warrior to kill once he has his hands about his enemy's throat."

"Less than an instant," Garad answered quietly, his worried gaze fixed on Boromir.

"Exactly," Gandalf said firmly. "You had already begun to resist, Boromir. That gave Faramir his chance to reach you. Well done."

Boromir stared hard at the wizard for a long moment. Gandalf looked back, calmly, intently. A shadow lifted from Boromir's regard and he nodded and gave a loud exhalation of relief.

"So, you remained cold, without hope of rescue for the moment, stranded wounded in the river. The Ring would wait, as silent and still as a wolf waiting its prey."

"I knew it would have me when next I succumbed to the cold," Boromir admitted.

"But you were rescued before then?" Elena prompted when both Boromir and Gandalf fell silent as if able to read one another's minds.

"No. They were not rescued," Gandalf said, when Pippin opened his mouth to answer. "Not in time. Yet, obviously, Boromir won the day. I cannot imagine how it was done."

"Pippin? Garad?" Liel turned to them impatiently.

"Our Captain-General has had many long hard years' experience in out-thinking the enemy," Garad said with undeniable pride. "The Ring had met its match. But this is for Pippin to tell, if Boromir will not."

"Surely the details are of no matter," Boromir scowled.

"I must know," Gandalf insisted.

With a wry smile Garad waved a hand at Pippin.

"Faramir knows, too," Pippin said, nervous at the thought of revealing before Liel exactly the means Boromir had used to protect their quest.

"He used the arrow from his arm as a brace," Faramir said mildly, again entranced by his niece who was smiling in her sleep.

"Clever," Liel said crisply. "The Ring could not reach you unconscious, and the brace would keep you both from drowning until rescue came. " She tilted her head and kissed him on the cheek, one hand lifting to stroke his jaw and throat. "Bravely done, My Own."

Gandalf's eyebrows had almost met his hairline. "Most resourceful indeed!" He frowned, "But I still don't understand – is that what you meant by the Ring nearly killing you, Boromir?"

"No. It forced illness upon me."

"It stopped you breathing," Pippin said, so quietly that Garad leaned closer.

Liel drew a sharp breath. "Did I hear correctly?" Then, sensing Boromir's discomfit, his worry for her, she turned to him with a smirk, "Well, I've done that once or twice."

Garad spat his beer over the table and laughed.

Boromir blinked, snorted and broke into a broad grin. Pippin was glad to see him relax. Liel was as good at finding the right thing to say to break tension as was Merry.

"Not the quite the same way, though, " Boromir finished.

Elena raised an eyebrow and said mildly, "Once or twice?"

Pippin didn't know where to look then he found Faramir who had said nothing. His attention was still on the baby, but his expression revealed he wasn't missing a word. And he was enjoying it.

"You can't hear someone who's not breathing," Liel said primly.

"Oh, then it was only once or twice," Garad said pointedly.

Gandalf regarded them like a schoolmaster with an unruly class. "If we might return to the matter at hand?"

That sent everyone into a round of snickering that confused Pippin. Then he got it and turned beet red.

Gandalf cleared his throat. "What exactly did the Ring do and when?"

"After Aragorn and Legolas reached him," Pippin answered, but wished they could just all go on joking together "The Ring, or something, snapped the brace, Boromir slipped and hit his head and went under. Aragorn somehow got him back to us, but he wasn't breathing."

"And all he tried to revive Boromir did not work," Gandalf deduced.

Pippin nodded. He dared look up and found Liel's hand gripping Boromir's so hard it must hurt him. She saw the direction of his gaze and immediately relaxed her hold.

"How then was it done?" Gandalf asked gently.

"Frodo." Pippin said, locking gazes with Boromir. He had never heard this before. "He lifted the Ring over his head and held it out over the water. He said if it didn't let you go it could rot in the river for another thousand years."

"And it released Boromir," Gandalf said.

"Right," Pippin said. "I wish Frodo had thrown it away… after Boromir was all right again, I mean. Then he could have stayed with us. But I know now, I know it can't be that way, not if we're all to save our homes and our families. I just hope Frodo and Sam are – well, I just hope." Boromir nodded and smiled at him, his eyes bright. Pippin looked across the table to find Faramir staring at him, a little shocked by all he'd heard. "Frodo didn't tell you that part, did he?"

"No, he did not." Faramir's blue eyes were full of pride and sympathy and gentleness.

"Please tell me," Pippin begged. "Were they well when you saw them?"

"Yes. Exhausted and hungry, but well enough. We saw them rested and well supplied before they set out again in the company of the creature who guides them."

"What creature?" Boromir demanded before Pippin could ask. "Not, Gollum?"

"You know of him?"

Boromir groaned and rubbed at his forehead. "He tracked us all the way through Moria. I should have killed him when I had the chance." He looked up at Gandalf. "You best be right about him."

"It both heartens and terrifies me that Frodo found the will to threaten the Ring," Gandalf said. "I doubt that anything other than seeing it killing one of the Fellowship would have given him that strength."

"It was all very fast," Pippin said. "Boromir started breathing again, coughing and gasping, and we got him inside by the fire."

"Inside?" Faramir asked, ignoring a telling glance from Garad that Pippin didn't understand.

"That explains that. It wasn't your tea going down the wrong way," the Ranger said.

"The ruins of the old portage house near Parth Galen," Boromir said. He turned to Faramir and Garad with a grateful tilt of the head. "We made good use of your Ranger stash."

"I am most glad, brother, most glad." Faramir held Boromir's gaze a long moment.

"So, it was because of the Ring's continuing attacks on Boromir's health that Frodo left?" Gandalf stated more than asked.

Pippin looked quickly at Boromir who flinched. "It wasn't just that. He'd already made up his mind in Lothlorien. He told Merry and I, there. He said the Lady had told him the Ring would take us all, one by one if he stayed with us. He told us that much so we could explain to Sam if he left suddenly. But we argued we should all stick together. And we did, until, until we arrived that day at the Seat of Seeing and Boromir was so ill he was unconscious. Frodo knew he had to get the Ring away, but Aragorn wanted to go with him, and said they must not cross the lake in daylight. So Legolas and Gimli took him to the top of the hill …" Pippin trailed off, feeling he had said too much.

"The major attack took place at the top of the hill," Boromir said. "Aragorn went to their aid. But there was another group intent on destroying our boats."

"Frodo and Sam came charging down the hill and nearly ran into them," Pippin remembered with a shiver.

"They would have, but for you and Merry," Boromir repeated. "I have seen few braver acts."

Pippin felt himself blush to his hairy toes. "I miss Merry," he said. "He would love to be here tonight with us. How long do you think it will be before he arrives with King Theoden?"

"Hopefully they're only two or three days away," Boromir said with a forced smile that told Pippin that was most unlikely in his estimation.

"To our valiant Hobbits!" Garad said and lifted his tankard in a toast.

"And to Boromir," Pippin insisted before the toast could be repeated. "You should have seen him, Liel, I mean, Your Grace."

"It would be an honour if you would call me Liel, as all my friends do," she said with a warm smile. "And please do tell me how he fought that day and how you escaped the enemy?"

Boromir groaned and took a long swig of his beer.

"… so," Pippin concluded. "That's how Boromir's ribs were broken and how we rescued him from the Uruk-hai. Which is only fair after all the times he's saved us. Though I'm sorry we had to hurt you, rolling you down the hill like that, Boromir."

Boromir looked up from where he'd been busily painting patterns in the condensation left on the tabletop by the cold pitcher of beer. "Better a few bruises than a prisoner."

"And the Lord Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli found you there?" Liel asked.

"And Gandalf, yes. Which was as well because Boromir was –"

"Healed," Boromir cut him off. "Surely it is time for you to sleep in a real soft bed at last, Pippin?"

"A bed! A real bed, oh, my, I'd forgotten. But of course there will be! Still we haven't said anything about the Ents and –"

"Ents?" Elena prompted curiously.

"The only important thing there is to report that Saruman is dead," Boromir said with a huge yawn.

Everyone stared at him and Liel said, "It seems you keep the best for last, Mirnin."

"Oh, I'd forgotten you had not heard."

"Hardly surprising for someone who has not slept in three days," Gandalf said tersely.

"Ents?" Faramir demanded, exchanging an I-told-you-so look with Garad, "You saw Ents! I told you they're real. Only a story." He snorted and shook his head.

"You were right and I apologize," Boromir said, winking at Pippin. "But the trees themselves don't talk, do they, Pippin?"

"Not a word, except maybe to Legolas."

"The Elf?" Garad said. "Well, that doesn't count."

"The trees don't talk," Boromir said, stretching and yawning again and looking fondly at his sleeping daughter. "But the Ents do. Nice chaps. Their leader, Treebeard, gave us that water that helped heal you, Faramir. I don't think you heard that part, you were busy with other things, like breathing."

His brother simply gaped at him. "I thought you'd just collected it from a stream in Fangorn."

"We did," Pippin said brightly, helping himself to some more apple pie. "After Treebeard told us which stream to use. It helped heal Boromir, too, made him sleep for two days."

"Two days?" Faramir yelped mid-yawn and then checked guiltily that he hadn't disturbed the baby.

Boromir grinned and stretched across the corner of the table to muss Faramir's hair, taking advantage of his brother being unable to retaliate with the baby in hand. "You had much less."

"And you were not dead," Gandalf added over a mouthful of dessert. He caught Liel's frown and her squeeze of Boromir's hand, and added quickly, "Though he was so only for a few moments."

Boromir sighed exasperation at the old wizard and turned to Liel to say softly, "I said I would return."

"You are here now, that's all that matters," she agreed and leaned into his kiss. He drew her closer and the kiss lingered long enough to make Garad and Faramir roll their eyes. Elena shushed Garad as he made to give a whistle, then she slapped him as he used his lips to better purpose. She relented and wrapped her arms about him to accept the kiss. Faramir looked beseechingly to Pippin but he only smiled, busy with helping himself to more cream for his pie.

"Saruman?" Faramir asked, giving up on addressing the others and speaking to Gandalf.

"Dead," Gandalf replied.

Boromir finally turned back to the conversation, "Wormtongue killed him. Stabbed him in the back."

Faramir blinked. "Fitting, I suppose, one traitor slain by another."

"Legolas shot Wormtongue," Boromir added. "Now that you should have seen, brother, a shot worthy of your Rangers. Wormtongue was atop the tower of Isengard and Legolas at its foot. I could barely see the Man, myself."

"Impressive, "Garad said, "I hope he's not the bragging kind."

Boromir laughed. "Legolas? No. You'll like him. Gimli, now he can almost equal you for tall stories."

"I take that as a challenge," Garad said smugly. "And it's all true."

"What of Isengard's armies?" Faramir asked though he was yawning now, too, and his eyes were slits beneath drooping lids.

"Destroyed. They attacked Helms Deep. Those not killed by Theoden, Aragorn and the others, ran into the trees of Fangorn surrounding the place and were not seen again."

"But Fangorn is many leagues distant!"

"The trees came to them, the Ents roused them to war."

Faramir blinked then yawned once more. Garad took another gulp of beer.

"Your niece is asleep," Liel said, "And you almost, Faramir. Time you took some rest."

"I will if you will," he told her seriously.

Standing, she smiled down at him. "We have a bargain." She bent and took Liramir from his arms and, kissing her, lay her gently in her crib.

Garad and Ciran stooped to pick up the bed base and carry Faramir to his rooms.

"I don't need a stretcher to go from here to my bed," Faramir protested.

Garad and Ciran looked at one another and shrugged. Garad lifted Faramir about the shoulders and Ciran very carefully slipped his arms under the knees using the covers to cushion the grip. Boromir and Liel followed them into the room.

The two Rangers returned moments later. "Gandalf, Boromir wonders if you have any athelas ointment left?"

"I do," Gandalf said, juggling his pipe back into a hidden pocket to withdraw a small tin.

"I'll take it to them," Pippin volunteered, then found he was a little dizzy as he got to his feet. Before he'd left the Shire, he'd never have imagined that a simple warm soft clean bed would seem such a great luxury. Gandalf handed over the ointment without comment, happy to return to his place by the hearth fire and his pipe.

Pippin entered Faramir's bedroom shyly, too tired to feel as curious as he may otherwise have been. He found Boromir and Liel bent over a large four poster bed atop whose snowy white sheets Faramir lay, eyes closed. He had been stripped and dressed in a plain linen bed tunic.

"Thank you, My Lord," Liel said, taking the tin as Pippin held it out, "This may see the burns completely healed so that he may rejoin the fight."

"I doubt we could keep him down, regardless," Boromir said, smiling as Faramir murmured something in response.

They soothed the ointment into the remaining scars very carefully, and Pippin noted two things: they had lain a soft towel beneath the wounded legs, and they had waited until Faramir was asleep to do it.

"It is good to see him safe in bed," Pippin said.

"It is indeed." Boromir's hands settled on Pippin's shoulders as he straightened, finished with his ministrations. "I thank you for your help today."

Liel gave back the tin and Pippin asked timidly, "Your Grace?"

"Liel," she corrected.

"Please call me Pippin," he said with a smile.

"It will be an honour," she replied, "Pippin. " She licked her forefinger and bent to scrub dirt from his cheek, her expression reminding him of one of his aunts. "Now get to your bed. Elena should have everything you need set up by the fire for you now."

"Thank you," Pippin looked up at Boromir. "I'm glad to see you home at last, Boromir."

He nodded but said nothing more, his attention on his sleeping brother. Pippin waited a moment, wanting to watch. He hoped they didn't mind, for it so reminded him of his own home, of his older sisters and his aunts, all fussing as the younger ones such as he himself were put to bed. Finished with covering the burned legs with strips of clean cloth, Liel nodded and Boromir pulled up sheet and blankets.

"Sleep well," Liel said and bent to brush the fine red-gold hair from Faramir's face. She stooped lower and kissed his brow.

"He's fully asleep?" Boromir asked cautiously. "He's not faking?"

She shook her head. "Not this time. I gave him enough pain medicines to be sure he sleeps the morning through."

Boromir snorted. "He won't like it when he wakes to find half the day gone." Then he bent and very lightly kissed his brother's forehead. He stroked Faramir's hair and fussed with the covers pulling them up high about the shoulders. He frowned and inspected the abrasions about Faramir's throat. Straightening, he shook his head, his eyes grim and Pippin knew what he was thinking, 'I nearly lost him.'

Boromir turned about, blinking surprise to find Pippin still there. "He hits hard. You have to be sure he's really asleep."

Pippin grinned and turned away, looking for his own bed.

"Your turn, Mirnin," Liel said. "Your hot bath is ready."

"Our hot bath is ready," he corrected.

Pippin found Gandalf standing by the hearth, his unlit pipe in his hand. Pippin knew he had taken plenty of pipeweed from Saruman's stores, and wondered if Gandalf was just being polite in not smoking, or Boromir had told him not to some time in the past. Boromir had not liked it when anyone smoked while they were on the road, but perhaps only because the enemy would smell it. Though it always made him cough.

"The ointment eased his legs?" Gandalf asked.

"Yes," Pippin said, "Though I think another round of your healing might work faster if he wants to be able to fight."

"We shall see," Gandalf said. "You will find there is no better medicine than the fussing he's getting now."

"I think you're right," Pippin agreed, remembering Boromir's expression as he kissed his brother.

His eyes rounded as he stepped beyond the now cleared table and saw the beautiful hobbit-sized bed by the fire. It was piled high with pillows and soft coverlets. He supposed it had once been a child's bed. At its side, behind a screen, steam rose from a hot bath in a tin tub. He poked his head around the screen and found a mound of soft towels, soaps, and a small clean white tunic. "Oh, this is wonderful!"

"That bed has sheltered many a prince of Gondor," Gandalf said, sadly knowing. Pippin saw the ages in his blue eyes, so many generations come and gone.

Pippin pulled up his tunic, then remembering looked around nervously and asked, "Where's Elena?"

"She, Garad and Ciran carried the dishes to the kitchens. Garad also is tired, but –" There was a twinkle in his eye as he said, "Elena has been given the night off from her duties."

"So much for his getting any sleep." Pippin yawned and stretched. "But he'll be happy." He hesitated again before heading for the bath.

"I'm sure Her Grace won't peek," Gandalf said.

"Yes," Pippin's smile became a sly grin. "I expect she will have her hands full."

Gandalf chuckled around the stem of his pipe. "Go on, now, enjoy your bath."

Pippin eagerly obeyed. The hot water felt so good that he lay back in it, his head on the back of the tub, and closed his eyes. The next he knew, he was dry and wrapped in soft linen and being tucked into bed. His eyes flew open with a start, and he was very pleased to find Boromir bent over him.

"Beds are for sleeping, Pippin, not baths," he said with a grin. "The water was going cold."

Pippin noted most of the candles had been snuffed and the room was lit by soft firelight. Boromir wore a green silk robe worked with gold thread. It was open at the throat and belted loosely at his waist. His big feet were bare and his damp hair gleamed red-gold in the firelight, pushed back from his brow. Pippin had never seen him looking so relaxed and somehow much younger, with his face so clean and the comfortable robe about him rather than a warrior's attire. He smelled faintly of rose which puzzled Pippin until he recalled that was Her grace's fragrance.

"I was on my way to check on Faramir," Boromir said, "When I saw you were not in your bed."

"Thank you, Boromir," Pippin said, yawning. He rolled over on to his side and gave a sigh of pure bliss. "Will he be all right, you think?"

But Boromir was gone, heading Pippin noted, back to his brother's room.

"That's the second time," Gandalf said from somewhere further back in the room. "Faramir will be fine, Pippin, as long as his brother doesn't fuss him to distraction."

"Well," Pippin said over an even bigger yawn. "You can't blame him, after…" The horrible image returned, making him shiver despite the warm covers.

"I am sorry," Gandalf said, much more gently than Pippin would have credited, "I did not mean to have you think of that again. I can spell you to dreamless sleep if you would like?"

"I'll be all right," Pippin said, solemnly. He was a soldier now, after all. Boromir's shadow fell over them as he crossed the room going back toward his own bed. Pippin added, "But you might need to help Boromir."

Gandalf muttered, "Once more and I will."

Yawning, Pippin frowned as a thought struck him.

"How did you know Boromir had made Faramir the Steward, too? You weren't there!"

Gandalf raised a shaggy eyebrow at him, giving him his best inscrutable Wizard look.

"Oh," Pippin nodded, yawning. "Right, I know. 'It's a wizard's business to know the hearts and minds of Men.'"

A twinkle took over the inscrutable look. "Actually, Boromir told me he was going to do it."

Pippin blinked. "When?" he demanded. There had been no time for it!

The twinkle deepened into affection and respect.

"Approximately four hours after Faramir had been born."

Pippin's jaw dropped in delighted astonishment.

"Things were better in those days. Denethor did not see me as an enemy, and as he wished for a more private moment with his wife after the birth of his second child, I looked after Boromir."

Gandalf shifted himself more comfortably, finding his pipe.

"He was five, or near enough," he remembered, packing the weed he'd not been too exalted by resurrection and promotion to accept at Isengard. "He was delighted with Faramir, as full of plans for ponies and presents as his brother is today. But then, he grew quiet, and worse, he sat still for nearly an hour."

"Not good," Pippin prompted, when Gandalf's pause to remember began to stretch.

"He was thinking, very hard about something very important, that was much plain. As his world had just changed forever, it was hardly surprising, so I left him to his pondering. I confess, my mind had wandered to other things, when suddenly he was standing on my foot, with as fierce a look of command as any you would see from the Man he is today. He said, 'It's not fair!'"

Pippin had to laugh, for somehow Gandalf had managed to take on the look and tone of a five year old Boromir with His Mind Made Up.

"'What's not fair?' I asked, moving him off my toes. 'It's not fair to Faramir!' he replied. 'One of us had to come first, that's all.' 'All of what?' said I. 'All the difference between us!' he answered. 'Why shouldn't he be Steward, too?' I told him they couldn't both be the Steward, and he put his hands on his hips and demanded to know why." Taking the pipe from his mouth, he tapped its stem against his chin. "For the life of me, I had no answer. So he folded his arms across his chest and informed me that when he became Steward, so would Faramir."

With a sigh of satisfaction, Pippin settled back under his covers with a wriggle. "I don't think I want to know what Denethor said, when Boromir told his father that."

"He never did," Gandalf said. "He was wise enough to tell his mother first. She told him to keep his resolution, but not to mention it to Denethor or his Council. I forget her reason, but I remember it followed a child's logic perfectly. When he was older, of course, he found his own reasons to keep his decision to himself, and to his brother."

Curled up amid a mound of incredibly soft pillows, Pippin was content to enjoy the images the story brought to him as he watched the flickering flames of the hearth fire. Beyond the foot of his bed, he could just see the shadows cast on Boromir's bedroom wall by its own hearth-light. Boromir had left all the adjoining doors open. Pippin looked up as once more, the Man made his way silently across the dining room, going again to check on his wounded younger brother.

Pippin remembered him doing much the same with he and Merry after each day's journeying as they settled to sleep about the campfire. He drifted, smiling a little at the thought, then another shadow fell across him – this time it was Liel going to check on Faramir. Then she returned, bending to tend her baby in the crib beside her bed, Boromir murmuring something to her.

It was almost like being home with his own family in the Shire, Pippin thought. He hoped Merry was tucked up safe somewhere among the Rohirrim. He must be lonely without any of the Fellowship remaining with him. Pippin hoped they would soon be reunited. Then he thought of Frodo and Sam, out there all alone, in the wilds and the cold, trudging toward Mordor and Mount Doom. He shuddered and pulled the blankets tighter about him.

Golden shadows flickered against Boromir's bedroom wall and Pippin saw the Man had gotten up and lifted his daughter into his arms. Then he bent down and tucked her in the bed next to Liel and kissed her.

Pippin closed his eyes, drifting off happy at the image of Boromir asleep in his own bed at last with a baby daughter only newly discovered.

There was still hope and joy to be found in the world. And together The Fellowship may yet succeed. Silently, Pippin wished he might send to Merry, Frodo and Sam this moment' s peace.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Five Days Later:

"How much longer do you think he's going to be?" Pippin asked impatiently, casting another glance at the firmly closed bedroom door, then looking back at the blanket-covered chair hiding the 'surprise' Garad and Faramir would only reveal to Boromir, yet still insisted he be a part of. "I thought you said he was coming."

"I thought he had," Garad sighed. Faramir's snicker ruined the Ranger's attempt to keep a straight face, and he joined his Captain in laughter.

"He's your brother, you can best judge," Garad said, with a sly smirk.

Faramir gave him a look of injured innocence. "I have no more idea than you. If I want to get any rest around those two, I sleep with my fingers in my ears and a pillow over my head." He shrugged. "Usually they'd still be going when I woke at dawn."

"More like noon," Garad scoffed. "They don't have that much time, today, though," he added. To Pippin's horror, the dark haired Ranger tilted his head closer to the door and listened a moment.

"It's gone quiet and he's not out here yet…," Garad mused, raising an eyebrow at Faramir.

"So?" Pippin demanded.

"They're going for seconds," the two men concluded in unison.

Pippin looked at them nonplussed then as he realized what they meant, he could feel his face burning.

"Ah well, the troops will need all the morale-boosting they can get, today," Garad yawned through a grin.

"What? The troops aren't… I mean…." Pippin spluttered. "What have the troops got to do with… it?!"

Faramir laughed. "It's just a superstition that came about after…. Well, after the first time a very young Captain-General made howling love to his wife before marching off to battle and winning a celebrated, nigh-on miraculous victory."

"Howling?" Pippin repeated, even though he had the proof of the description ringing in his ears.

"It's sort of expected now, you see," Garad explained, adding with mock sorrow, "Such a trial for our long suffering hero."

Pippin had to snort at that. "It always works, then?"

"Always," Garad assured him.

"They were unable to be together in Osgiliath," Faramir said, his tone abruptly so grim that Pippin blinked at him.

"Osgiliath?"

"Before Boromir was so suddenly compelled to leave for Imladris. She wasn't there to… see him off properly."

"Oh," Pippin said, with another blink.

"So," Garad clapped Faramir on the back to snap him from his sombre moment. "They'll be making up for that with the double duty. We could be here a while."

Pippin groaned again.

"You might as well get comfortable," Faramir told him, smiling once more.

"Right, then," Pippin said quickly, hoping to mask what he thought was a low groan of pleasure from behind the door. "So there's enough time for me to get another snack?"

"Plenty," Garad and Faramir chorused.

This time they all heard it clearly – Boromir was definitely enjoying himself. Faramir put aside the piece of bread he had been nibbling and gave a loud sigh. Seeking distraction, he turned to check the blanket that was tented over the chair that held the mysterious gift.

"Can't you at least give me a hint what it is?" Pippin asked plaintively, his curiosity unbearable. All he could get out of the two Men was that it was for Boromir and it must be presented just before battle.

"Patience," Faramir counseled. He took a sausage from a plate on the side table to add to his bread and took a significant bite. Garad winced theatrically, then leaned his back to the wall, making himself comfortable for the wait.

Pippin folded his arms over his chest, and tapped his foot. "What did you do whenever Boromir told you to be patient, Faramir?"

Garad snorted. Faramir cast him a grin and said, "Usually something involving a bloodied nose, one way or the other."

"Exactly."

Another sound came from the bedroom, this one an indescribable noise.

"That'll be their second breakfast," Garad quipped.

"They'll wake the baby," Pippin grumbled.

"How do you think the baby got here?" Garad grinned down at him.

"I'm trying not to think about it!"

Laughing, Faramir said, "Don't worry about my niece, she's already gone with Beth. You and Liel will be too busy working in the Houses of Healing to have time to look after Liramir, too."

There was more noise from inside and, embarrassed, Pippin moved away.

"And I thought his snoring was bad!" he muttered, heading to the other side of the dining room to the large table about which everyone had eaten breakfast. He had been the only Hobbit present, so there should be leftovers. He'd try some more dry cereal, that would crunch the loudest in his ears, he decided.

It was just before dawn. He was used to early starts on the long road south with the Fellowship, but not quite this early. Word was the enemy would attack today. He would need all the sustenance he could get. Besides which, Beth's food was delicious.

By the time he was finished with another round of sausages, eggs and mushrooms, the bedroom door finally opened, Boromir emerging at last. He was pulling on his tunic and juggling his sword belt as he left the room, his face to Liel whom Pippin could not see. When he turned about Pippin had to smile at his friend's disheveled but smugly self-satisfied expression.

"What are you doing here?" Boromir asked, an eyebrow raising in surprise.

"That's what I want to know," Pippin said sourly.

"Since it's obvious what you've been doing," Garad smirked.

"And what did you and Elena do, last night?" Boromir asked, looking directly at the love-bite prominent on Garad's throat. Pippin heard Liel laugh from inside the bedroom. Smiling, Boromir turned back to close the door and give her some privacy.

"We can't let Gondor's Captain General go off to battle half-naked," Faramir said, taking the sword belt from Boromir so he could pull his undertunic on over his head.

"You and Gandalf, and your damned riddles! Speak plainly, Brother!"

"Pippin?" Faramir said, with a gesture toward the chair and its blanketed burden. "As you have waited so… patiently, would you do the honors, please?"

"Finally!" Pippin pounced and drew back the blanket, eager to see what lay beneath it.

It was Boromir's shield.

The world spun. Again, he heard the desperation of Boromir's breathing. Again, his legs and arms were wracked with pain from the grip of the Orcs, binding him, keeping him from Boromir. Again, he saw his friend on his knees on the mossy earth of Amon Hen, wounded, the protection of the arrow-thick shield kicked away from him, rolling on its edge forever until it toppled over the bank into the water….

"Pippin…?"

Again, a hand engulfed Pippin's shoulder, but its grasp was gentle, far kinder than the monstrous, clawed hands of the Orcs. It was Boromir, somehow knowing what Pippin was seeing and feeling.

"Pippin?" Boromir said again. He was down on one knee beside him, and Pippin took a deep breath, forcing himself to see the Man as he was, not the Man from his memory. He was not grey-faced with exhaustion and illness, was not wounded, they were not captured and helpless. Boromir wasn't dying by inches, he was well, happy, and safely home.

Pippin shook himself a little and found a weak smile. "I'm all right."

Boromir gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and nodded his approval, before dropping his arm around Pippin's shoulders in a gesture as casual as it was comforting. Taking a deep breath, Pippin turned with that guiding arm to look back at the shield.

"It's different," Pippin observed.

"They mended it," Boromir explained.

"They did more than that!" Pippin touched a wondering finger to one of the seven large metal stars that now encircled the polished boss of the shield. It occurred to Pippin that Faramir and Garad had set it deliberately so the stars would catch the red-gold gleam of the leaping flames in the hearth. Reaching out a free hand to take the edge of the shield, Boromir tilted it back and forth, making the stars dance.

"They're arrowheads, aren't they?"

"Yes, but not the kind used by the Rangers of Ithilien. These are our trophies, Pippin!"

"You mean those are the same ones ….?"

"They are!" Boromir looked at him with a great grin. "I'd call that the last laugh for us. We win!"

"Waste not, want not," Garad said, pleasure warm in his voice.

"Your idea?" Boromir asked him.

The color rose in Garad's face, not quite matching the lurid purple of the love-bite. "Damrod's, really. Always going on about Eärendil Stars."

Pippin suddenly realised the significance, remembering the verse he had learned in Rivendell. "Seven stars and seven stones and one white tree!"

"We still have two out of three," Faramir said. "Not bad, all things considered."

"The bastards kicked it into the water," Boromir growled, his attention returning to the shield. "It should have been smashed to pieces by the falls. How did it come to you?"

"The morning you appeared to us, on the river, your shield found me first, bare moments before." He could not hold his brother's gaze as he added, "It bore a small forest of arrows."

"They were in it, rather than me!" Boromir laughed, trying to cajole Faramir from the anguish of the memory.

"I was sure you were dead, or dying," Faramir murmured, his arms crossing tightly across his chest as he refused to meet his brother's gaze.

"I wondered why you were so angry," Boromir said, nodding with new understanding. "I didn't understand why you weren't happy to see me...."

Pippin felt one more pat on his back as Boromir stood. Reaching out, he put one hand on Faramir's shoulder.

"Thanks for booting me back to where I belonged."

Steadied by that comforting grasp, Faramir smiled faintly and managed to meet his brother's eyes. "I don't think Garad and I could have sent you home if we'd been holding beer tankards in our hands."

"No chance," Boromir snorted, smiling relieved thanks for the joke.

"Lucky thing we were fresh out, then," Garad said with a laugh.

Boromir reached out with his other hand to take Garad's forearm. Pippin smiled to see the big Ranger shift uncomfortably as Boromir looked at him with the expression of affection and gratitude that had become so familiar and so dear.

"You've always been there for us, Garad," he said. "I am most glad you were with Faramir that day. Most glad, for none could have done better."

Garad nodded and said nothing for a moment, then grinning shakily, he muttered, "Never did get our damn boots dried out completely."

"And that water is cold," Boromir sympathized.

"You would know!" Garad's grin widened, making him look suddenly much younger than Pippin had estimated. Pippin still remembered how surprised he had been to learn that Boromir was only four years older than Merry. Garad was like Boromir, then, for Boromir only showed his true youth when he smiled.

"She's beautiful," he told them, with a nod toward the shield.

"There were exactly the right number of arrowheads to make seven stars," Faramir told him, clasping his brother's elbow. "Did you plan that?"

"Of course!" Boromir laughed, with an airy wave of his hand.

"There's something else," Faramir said, giving Garad an encouraging shove. Intrigued, Pippin watched as Garad seemed to produce a small box out of thin air. It was made of wood, the top inlaid with silver. He recognized the decoration as the same as went around the boss of Boromir's shield, the sweeping sea-eagle wings reaching upward to support the arch of seven stars, a perfect circle of silver inside their embrace.

Boromir lost his smile and shot Faramir a look Pippin couldn't decipher. Faramir just grinned, pushing Boromir's arm to take the box from Garad, who looked ready to bolt.

With a frown, Boromir did so gently. The little box almost disappeared in the breadth of one palm as he opened it. Pippin saw his eyes widen and his jaw drop. He didn't say anything, simply staring at whatever it held, the sound of his breathing thickening as his eyes grew bright.

"Will it do?" Garad asked nervously when the silence lengthened.

Shaking his head, Boromir tried to speak and failed. He turned to Pippin, carefully handing the box to him to hold. Pippin took it with both hands, understanding the depth of his friend's feelings, if not the cause.

When he was certain Pippin held it secure, Boromir turned back to his brother and Garad. A moment later, they were both in his arms with such force he nearly cracked their heads together. The two returned the embrace, the expression on Faramir's face so naked in its feelings for Boromir, Pippin had to look away.

Naturally, he looked at the box, and found it held a perfect, tiny replica of Boromir's new shield, also in silver.

"This is your work, Garad!" Boromir said, when he at last released them and stepped back. His voice was rough, and he had to drag the cuff of his tunic across his face.

"All the men contributed something to it," Garad told him. "Either the pendent or the shield."

"And not just Rangers," Faramir told him, his voice as husky as his brother's. "We had guests in Henneth Annun who knew this shield and loved you well. Their hands shared in the work."

"Frodo and Sam..." Boromir whispered, looking back at the shield and then down at the box Pippin held. "What do you think of it?" the Man asked him.

"It's a perfect match," Pippin replied. "But… what is it? I mean, what's it for?"

"A Shield Union," Boromir explained, taking the box Pippin held out to him. "It's for Liel."

"Oh!" Pippin exclaimed as Boromir lifted the silver amulet from the box, revealing the ribbon attached to it, to allow it to be worn about the neck. "You made this, Garad? It's so small, but it's exactly like Boromir's shield, down to the rivets!"

Garad blushed again at Pippin's praise.

"He's a gifted metalworker," Faramir said proudly.

"Blacksmith's son," Boromir explained, absently, his attention all for the amulet. "Damn fine farrier and jeweler."

"What's a shield union?" Pippin asked, watching Boromir's thumb stroke back and forth across the tiny shield.

"It unites the two shield bearers," Faramir said with quiet intensity, watching his brother. "Heart, mind and spirit. They can never be parted."

Tears stung Pippin's eyes. He nodded understanding, finding his own throat tight.

"Denethor destroyed the first one," Boromir told Pippin, anger rippling beneath the words. Then he slapped Garad's arm and smiled. "This one is even more beautiful!"

"Frodo and Sam helped us to make it," Garad explained. "That's why we wanted you here, Pippin, to represent them."

"Also because you were with Boromir at Amon Hen," Faramir said quietly. "Frodo says he owes his life to you both and to Merry for what you did there."

"As do I," Boromir said, giving Pippin a smile as he mussed the Hobbit's hair. "Excuse me a moment, Gentlemen."

"Only a moment," Faramir warned. "Our Men are waiting for us."

"Tell your Rangers the next round of Ale is on me!" Boromir laughed, heading for the bedroom.

"Just remember, we don't intend doing all that work again. Keep your shield close today, brother!"

"I will!" Boromir assured him as he opened the door to the bedroom.

"Sunshine!" Garad called, making Boromir look back over his shoulder into the room. Garad tossed something to him in a shining blur of motion. Boromir plucked it from the air automatically. Pippin had just enough time to see it was a small silver cup, perfect for a young child, before Boromir's hand closed over it, his expression one of stunned recognition.

"The honor was payment enough," Garad said, the words hard to say, like they were sticking in his throat. Then Pippin was being lifted bodily by one arm and carried from the room by the big Ranger. Garad dragged Faramir along too, slamming the door to the hallway with surprising haste and frog-marching both of them around the corner so they could no longer be seen if Boromir followed them out of the antechamber to his rooms.

"What was that?!" Faramir demanded in a whisper, respecting Garad enough to honor his desire for having the last word in this matter with Boromir at least.

"His Big Boy cup," Garad said, rather sheepishly Pippin thought, seeing the color that had risen along his cheekbones deepening.

"Our Grandmother gave him that," Faramir said. "She said every boy should have something of his own, something that belonged just to him. We both had one, though mother gave me mine. He saved it for me…."

It was Faramir's turn to duck his head and rub the back of his neck against the flush creeping up it.

"The day you became a Ranger?" Garad guessed. "That's when my father gave me back mine, hoping I'd need it sooner rather later, I think.."

Faramir nodded, looking up with a smile that said everything about the love between the brothers, the support the Fellowship had leaned on so many times, the sword and the shield of Gondor.

"Why did you have it?" Pippin couldn't help asking Garad.

"Oh, well, the big Idiot gave it to me to make the first Shield Union," Garad explained, with a diffident shrug. "As if I would destroy it…. So, I decided to give it back to him on the birth of his first child. I figured he'd be too happy to care about his wounded pride, though I didn't expect I'd have to hide the damned thing for twenty years!"

Faramir laughed, shaking his head and punching Garad in the arm.

"Big Idiot,' he repeated, blocking Garad's retaliation and turning it into a back-slapping hug.

"I have a niece!" he caroled happily.

"As I recall, that means you buy the beer," Garad reminded him, with a wink at Pippin. "Come on, Oh My Captain! Someone official needs to show their face before the soldiers decide to join Boromir in making love rather than war!"

"One day," Faramir said, growing serious. "One day, my friend, that choice will be ours, thanks to our friends from the Shire."

"Frodo and Sam you mean," Pippin corrected.

"If not for Pippin and Merry, Frodo and Sam would have been taken at Amon Hen," Faramir reminded him. "If not for the two of you, Minas Tirith would have been taken from within, helpless before its betrayal to Sauron."

"If not for you and your cousin, my Captains would be dead," Garad added grimly. "The Rangers and Tower Guard of Minas Tirith would already lie slaughtered before her gates."

'Oh," Pippin said, very quietly. He hadn't thought about it like that, and wasn't sure he agreed with them, for his part at least. Merry was the brave one, really….

"Come, Guardsman," Faramir said, and Pippin looked up at him to find understanding in his gaze, and a sudden, surprising realization that he had changed from a tag-along to a comrade in arms somewhere on the long road to Minas Tirith. Faramir would have taken the same journey, with his brother and with Garad, would have won through the same doubts.

"Let us go to the Wall, and remind Gondor she no longer stands alone on this darkest of days. Let us remind them our long watch has not been in vain."

BREAK

"We drove them off up there, easily enough!" Boromir grinned and jumped down from his horse, his boots echoing in the cobbled damp tunnel. It was one of several that had once fed the city viaducts. "What news here?"

"Where's your helm?" Faramir demanded, looking up from his work.

"Too hot, and I don't need it just now. We're holding them off, Faramir! The city is holding!"

Faramir had to smile for his brother's joy, but he was still not happy about the helm. "We're holding back the siege towers but not the bombardment," he corrected. "You need a helm, riding the streets through falling masonry."

Boromir cuffed his brother's bare head, "So, where's yours?"

"I'm working underground, brother."

"Planning to collapse a small mountain of earth and rock -- same as falling masonry."

Faramir's scowl-smile vanished to stillness. "It's coming?"

"About a league off, Gandalf reports. And it's even bigger a battering ram than we expected. Apparently they've name it Grond. Or at least that's what they're chanting."

"I wonder what that means?" Faramir said.

Boromir shrugged. "Your sister is a whore and your mother was a cave troll?"

Garad, standing at the rear, shook his head. "That would be a compliment."

"Well, whatever it means, it has a mouth full of fire."

"Shit," Garad said.

Faramir saw the worry in Boromir's eyes. "Cave trolls?"

Boromir nodded. "Hate those bastards. Dozens and dozens of them, they have the numbers to keep coming at us no matter their losses."

Faramir drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, glancing at Garad, Damrod and Ciran listening at his side. "We go now." He turned to Garad. "Pass the order on and see everyone checks their gear."

"We'll be ready to haul you in over the walls if need be."

"I know."

"Watch that oil. When the trench collapses and it catches fire it –"

" – could splash anywhere," Faramir quoted impatiently.

Garad returned and Faramir saw Boromir give him the make-sure-he-comes back-alive look. He shook his head. He'd many times wondered how Garad managed such a burden.

"Wear your helm," Faramir said and turned to go.

Boromir grabbed his shoulders and pulled him into a quick hard hug. "I will if you will," he said roughly. He held Faramir's gaze a moment, then scowled at Garad, "That goes for you, too."

"I love you, too," Garad said and blew a kiss.

"Captain-General! The north wall, second level!" A young officer yelled from the tunnel mouth.

Garad turned to follow Faramir, but was caught and pulled back around to face Boromir.

"Thanks," Boromir said gruffly, making a moment neither had to clasp Garad's forearm to his.

"Remember that, the first time she dents your head with the thing," Garad grinned. Boromir lit up like the dawn, the arm-clasp becoming a quick, back-slapping hug before he let go. Garad watched him for the moment it took Boromir to swing back on his horse, trotting off to contain yet another hot spot.

BREAK

Boromir found the next hour more difficult for the need to wonder how his brother and the Rangers fared. They would trigger the cave-in and fire only if absolutely necessary. And that necessity was rapidly becoming reality. For all their desperate fighting and hard work with ballistas, pitch and archers, the men stationed along the battlements could not keep up. The enemy front ranks went down only to be immediately replaced, and Grond crept steadily closer, hauled by cave trolls. Now less than two hundred yards from the gates, Boromir knew there was no other choice.

Where was Theoden, where Aragorn? Minas Tirith desperately needed aid.

Boromir lifted the horn to his lips, remembering how he had heard it at Isengard and known, helplessly, of Aragorn's plight. His intent was not the same, it was the first of the signals for which Faramir and his Men waited. But Boromir hoped nonetheless, that somehow, somewhere not too far away, Theoden and Aragorn would hear and soon respond, bringing thousands of riders and a ghostly army to Gondor's defence.

He drew a deep breath and gave one, then another long blast on the horn, the signal to Faramir to be ready, and to have his Men stand clear. Frightened, the enemy wavered a moment, their lines faltering, as they looked about themselves, expecting the appearance of allies. None came and overseers soon lashed any who hesitated longer to move forward.

Boromir leaned out over the wall, judging the moment precisely, watching the massive battering ram's wheels pass over the rear mark, a line of stone. The monstrous Grond crept relentlessly onward until Boromir was certain it now stood atop the solid earth, wood and stone roof and walls of the vaulted trap. It had taken weeks of laborious digging by Liel's workers. The more dangerous finishing touches, the sabotaging, the triggers that would bring it down, had been meticulously laid by Faramir and his Rangers.

Boromir blew the horn once more. Nothing seemed to change. The enemy jeered. Grond moved a pace closer. Then, abruptly, great cracks spread in a rapidly growing spider web across the ground beneath trolls, Orcs and machine. The cracks became chasms, and in a thunderous booming roar, the trap gave way. Grond teetered, hung suspended a moment, then fell, swallowed completely by the gaping dark mouth. Dust billowed in a great choking cloud that reached the battlements. Everything was hidden from sight for long tense moments.

Boromir and his Men heard success before they saw it – bellows of outrage and pain, the trolls burning. Flames and smoke belched high, eating the dust. Smashed and broken, Grond lay amid hungry flames. Its burning teeth had set fire to the oil and pitch flooded trench with its twenty foot high walls.

It was utter chaos, complete ruin.

It was magnificent victory.

All along the battlements, and spreading down into the streets, elated whoops and cheers resounded. Boromir grinned and slapped Aradan on the shoulder. The old soldier returned the smile just as delightedly.

Now there remained only the fear for Faramir and his Rangers. Would they be able to return through a smoke-filled, burning tunnel, collapsing it behind them as they went?

"Keep an eye out!" Boromir commanded. "Be ready to haul on those lines!"

A succession of 'yes, sirs!' returned to him even over the background celebrations. Then, the network of tunnels about Grond also began giving way. They had suspected it and were prepared. Dusty Rangers emerged, further hidden by hooded cloaks and masks, remained unseen to all but waiting eyes amid the chaos. Some or all may yet make it back inside, heading for the remaining intact section connected to the old water viaducts. If the enemy should chase them inside, they would be drowned. More Rangers stood ready to release the reservoirs.

Then it came.

Horns, sounding again and again, calling Riders to the charge, answering Boromir's call, and bringing tears to sting his eyes. He lifted his face to the dawning sky, saw them appear, a darker line against the light. Too few, but then, more, and still more. Every hillside and slope brimmed with them. The cheers about Boromir grew to fever pitch. But he could not smile, he was too choked by relief and by awe for their courage. Theoden would be preparing them, rallying them to charge headlong into a tidal wave of enemy spears, arrows and blades. Watching, Boromir saw the enemy ranks reforming, facing to the rear. Good, Faramir and his Rangers would be unseen as they made their way not back into the city, but to join the Riders.

The battle had truly begun.

"Sir!"

Another breathless runner. Boromir returned the youngster's salute.

"Second level, east wall. One of the towers got close enough to bridge. The ballistas crews are falling, Nazgul attack. Gandalf calls for aid."

Boromir nodded and cast one last glance over the wall, hoping for a sight of his brother, and then almost held spellbound by the magnificent charge of the Rohirrim.

"Trumpeter!" He turned back. "Sound third battalion to me!"

The clear ringing call resounded above the turmoil and the Men of the Third responded, leaving only the Second to guard the walls about the first level. The enemy was spreading them thin. Hopefully, Theoden's Riders would take care of that.

BREAK

The easternmost section of the second level streets was a nightmare of flames and toppling masonry. The Nazguls' beasts were tearing at buildings and ballistas, dropping stone and Men to kill hurrying soldiers and civilians. Boromir snapped orders, called Elena's archers to double the guard on the surviving ballista crews. Higher up the street, Gandalf stood, his staff a whirl of white as he felled Orcs coming from the siege tower. Orcs scurried up the tower scaffolding, a conduit for a tide of enemy that would be constantly replenished from below. Boromir looked back, trying to estimate how many ballistas were left. If one of them could be turned somehow to fire at the tower -- For all their valiant efforts, the archers seemed to be succeeding only in annoying the Nazgul rather than stop the wraiths' winged mounts.

Close by, a ballista gunner went down, struck by a glancing but nonetheless savage blow from flying talons. His weapon's load was cocked and ready. Boromir jumped in to take the Man's place, chopping at the mooring rope with his sword. A blot of darkness loomed over the wall, swooped closer.

"Nazgul!"

Again the beast slashed and snatched at his Men. Furious, Boromir hacked and chopped, trying to take the creature's leg off. Something struck his helm with a resounding clang and it toppled from his head. A small jagged piece of stone hit him, cutting his brow and blood streamed into his eyes, blinding him. There was a thump- whoosh of giant wings and Boromir cleared his sight just in time to see a second Nazgul. Its faceless black shape was very close. He drew and hurled his dirk at its mount's eyes as it rose from beneath the battlements but missed. Clawed talons slammed into his armoured chest and upper right arm and all the air left his lungs, the shock coursing through his body. He dropped his sword.

Then, he was being lifted sharply, the roar of battle fading, the concussive thud of the wings painfully deafening. Beneath his swinging boots, the second level walls and towers spun dizzyingly, receding further and further. Clinging tight as best he could to a scaled leg with his gloved left hand, he drew his second dirk from his boot. He hacked and cut at the imprisoning claws. He would already be dead, his ribs, lungs and heart crushed but for his protective armour. He dared not look down again, but felt the beast dive sharply, preparing to use his body as a weapon, throw him down upon the Rohirrim.

But, for some reason, it did not release its grip and he continued hacking away. He could only hope to wound it, perhaps mortally, keep digging with the dirk until he struck an artery. The thing would eventually shake him off, or drop him. He might as well take it with him into death or at least wound it sufficiently to prevent it capturing another soldier.

SCENE BREAK

Faramir and his Rangers had found some horses and wheeled to join the Rohirrim who were still some distance from them. Faramir grunted in pain and doubled over, releasing his grip on the reins.

"Captain!" Garad called urgently at his side and grabbed to control his mount.

Faramir had no breath for reply. "Boromir!" he mouthed.

"Nazgul!" the cry went up about him and he knew exactly where to look.

To anyone else it would seem just another hapless Gondorian soldier carried so far aloft in those monstrous talons. But Faramir recognized his brother, knew that was what he had felt, knew Boromir was even now fighting the creature as best he could.

"Faramir!" Garad snatched at the horse's reins and pulled them closer. Damrod and Ciran protected their backs.

"It has him," Faramir said. "Up here." He nodded skyward, and, even over the din of battle plainly heard Garad's shocked breath.

"What do we do?"

"Follow it. No. There – that overturned siege tower. Use it as cover. Climb, wound it, bring it down."

Faramir collected the reins and spurred his horse toward the wrecked pile of burned and mangled metal and wood. He vaulted from the saddle, grabbed a metal rung and began climbing. He didn't need to see his brother, knew where he was, how he was.

_Stay alive! Hang on! Just a little longer!_

Braced on a cross beam, he unslung his long bow from his shoulder, drew and nocked an arrow from the quiver all in the same motion. He sensed Garad, then Ciran and Damrod's arrival at his side.

"Aim for the right wing. Only the right! Wound it, force it down."

"And don't shoot Boromir," Garad added.

SCENE BREAK

Boromir knew it was futile but was not about to quit. He continued to hack and slice, the creature's thick black blood making his grip less certain about the dirk hilt. It responded by tightening its hold until he gasped for breath. The rush of cold air about him whipped the hair back from his face and pushed the blood of his wound away from his eyes. The sound of battle was suddenly louder, and he looked down. The Nazgul seemed to be intent on having its beast fly over the Rohirrim to display him as a trophy before it killed him. Or carried him to Sauron. Boromir could make out Theoden's distinctive white horse with its elaborate trappings and his armour gleaming in the sun. Eomer's banner flew off to the right.

_Give 'em murder for me! _

Arrows suddenly sang about him and he flinched, then cheered as two hit home, embedding in the beast's right wing. It dipped and fought to regain level flight. It pivoted sharply on the sound wing and Boromir got a glimpse of the archers who were continuing to fire a rain of arrows.

_Faramir! Garad! Ciran! Damrod!_ All still alive. _Yes!_

More arrows slammed into the wounded right wing. Both Nazgul and best screamed outrage and pain. Then the talons opened.

Boromir fell.

SCENE BREAK

"No!" Faramir screamed.

He collapsed, breathless, sharing the horrific shock of impact. Winded, he sat a moment, dazed and huddled over. Garad bent to him, tears streaking his dirty face.

"Alive!" Faramir gasped, shaking his head. "He's still alive!"

"Where?"

Ciran and Damrod had not looked away but had tracked Boromir's fall.

"There! In the middle of the dead cave trolls!"

"That could have saved him," Faramir said. "Come on! No, leave the horses, keep out of sight."

Bent low, and disguised by enemy rags and pieces of armour, dust and blood, they made their way through dismembered bodies and overturned burning siege towers. Then, at last, they were safely in the shadow cast by the giant smoldering, bloodied bodies of the trolls who had hauled Grond. More had replaced them as they fell, creating a small mountain of soft, dead flesh. Leaving Ciran and Damrod on guard, Garad and Faramir climbed up. They did not have to search for long.

Boromir lay sprawled on his back, unmoving. His right arm was outstretched, still clutching his darkly bloodied dirk in an equally bloodied glove. His own scarlet blood coated his upper face.

Clambering hurriedly closer, Faramir swallowed hard, braced for the worst. He knelt at his brother's side, ducked his head low, heard Boromir's painful groaning breathing. He had to bite down had to stop from weeping relief.

"He's alive!" he heard Garad tell Ciran and Damrod.

"Hurt?" they called up.

"Not sure."

The blood came from a minor scalp wound and was not a concern. Faramir and Garad worked quickly and thoroughly to check for broken bones, a difficult task with al the armour and one of which they could not be certain.

"Only Boromir could survive this," Garad said, shaking Faramir's arm in celebration. "But how in blazes do we get him out of here?"

"If he's hurt worse than he looks we stay put. Hide, and hope the Rohirrim reach us."

Boromir swore, breathlessly, painfully, repeatedly his eyes still closed. Faramir and Garad exchanged grins.

"Our hero speaks," Garad said, his voice shaking despite the joking words.

Boromir lifted a shaking hand to wipe at his bloodied face.

"Boromir?" Faramir said. He wanted to hug him in relief but was afraid he might hurt him. "How bad?"

"Faramir?" Boromir blinked and squinted dazedly up at him. "Is that you?"

"Who else. Garad's here, too."

"He is?" Boromir winced as he turned his head and squinted some more.

"Can't you see him?" Faramir asked, worried.

"What?" Boromir complained. "My ears are ringing."

"I'll bet!" Garad snorted.

Faramir pulled some cloth from the kit at his belt and tried to swab blood from Boromir's eyes. Boromir grabbed his hand, took the cloth, and did it for himself. Then, with their assistance, he sat up, braced against Garad. He blinked at them, the whites of his eyes bright amid his own red and the beast's splattered black blood.

"Did we haul you up the wall? How did you get up here with me?"

Garad shook his head. "How did you get down here with us, you mean."

"You're not on the wall anymore," Faramir told him.

"I'm not?" Boromir got an elbow under himself and sat up a little more, his right hand sinking deep into the troll's belly. "What the fuck? What is this stuff?"

"Dead cave troll," Garad said, dryly. "Saved your neck."

"Cave troll?" Boromir stared down at the pile. "Those bastards. What…?"

"You took a flight with a Nazgul."

"I did? Oh, yeah, that's right. I feel… dizzy." He leaned aside and threw up.

Faramir tugged his water skin from his belt and poured a little over the cut on Boromir's head. "I don't think it's too bad," he said with relief.

"Well, it bloody hurts," Boromir grumbled. "Give me that thing." He tried to snatch the water skin but was still too unsteady and out of focus to manage it. Faramir fed him some water and he drank thirstily.

"You should have worn your helm," Faramir could not resist saying.

"I _did_ wear it!" Boromir said, indignant, and spluttering on the water.

"Lucky, lucky bastard," Garad said, smiling at the exchange as he dug in his kit. He handed some bandaging to Faramir.

"Lucky?" Boromir said irritably. "I can't see for all this fucking blood. Where did you – How did you get to me?"

"Here." Faramir wrapped the roll of bandaging about his brother's head. "Sit still, would you! This won't be white for long, so it won't be seen. We can hunker down here a while 'til you get your head on straight again."

"Forget that," Boromir growled. "We have a battle to win!"

Garad chuckled and repeated that to Ciran and Damrod who cheered softly.

"Can you stand?" Faramir asked.

"One way to find out."

"Keep low," Garad advised as he aided Faramir in getting Boromir's arms about their shoulders. They hauled him up, slowly and carefully.

Boromir groaned then swore in a constant creative stream. "Keep low, he says." He moaned and rubbed at his back. "I can only _do_ low right now. I think my fucking back's broken."

Faramir bit back a smile. "You're in no shape for fighting, brother." Very carefully, he and Garad lowered Boromir to the waiting arms of Ciran and Damrod.

"Are you all right?" they asked.

"Never better," Boromir snapped. "No hiding under...."

Faramir climbed down beside him just as a sudden eerie wailing music reverberated from far out on the Pelennor. It was almost as grating a sound as that made by the Nazgul.

"Oh, shit!" Garad said, still high enough on the dead trolls to see.

"Now what?"

"Haradhrim. Nine or so Mumakil. They have Theoden and his riders trapped between the hammer and the anvil."

"Then we get them out of here as planned!" Boromir snapped, sounding suddenly much more coherent. "Let's go. Where's my sword?"

"Who knows," Faramir said. He looked around and took one from the nearest dead Man. "Here, take this. It was a Rider's."

Boromir held the blade high and touched it to his brow in blessing. "We will avenge him," he told the sword which, like every other Rohirrim blade, carried runes to identify its owner. He looked up to Garad who was still scanning the run of the battle. "Can you see Theoden?"

"No. But I can see Eomer. He and some others have lost their horses. They're making a stand on a knoll about two hundred yards due west."

Garad jumped down. Boromir took a staggering step forward, coming out from behind the troll. An Orc quickly lost its head to his new blade as it dared block his path. Side by side , Faramir, Boromir and the three Rangers began hacking their way through the enemy ranks.

"Damm," Boromir said.

"What?"

"I don't believe it! The fucking horn never broke!"

"Good! It saved us once it might again!" Nonetheless, Faramir shook his head, laughing even as he cut down another enemy who came swinging at him. His brother had often complained long and loud about how the horn forever got in his way while fighting.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

Well met, brothers!" Eomer greeted, a grim smile painting a white band through the grime and the shadow of his helm.

Having reached the small hillock at last, exhausted more than he cared to admit, Boromir was glad when the Rohirrim square closed ranks about him, Faramir and Garad. For the moment at least, there were spared the need to fight. Ciran and Damrod had left them with orders to return to the tunnel mouth, guard it, and prepare for the expected retreat into the city.

"Boromir!" Eomer gripped his shoulders. "The Lion of Gondor has many lives!"

"Mandos won't let him in," Garad said with a snort. "Too much trouble."

Eomer laughed. "He may yet refuse us all! We make the enemy pay dear for our lives this day!"

"Rally your Men to us at the last," Boromir said, "There is a tunnel. We can return to the city, defend our people. Aragorn will be here soon."

Eomer nodded, opened his mouth to say something. Then, he gasped, the blood gone from his face. "He will come too late for us. Look."

He lifted an arm and pointed toward the great river in the east. Boromir turned. There, coming up the Anduin were ships under black sails. Corsairs.

"No, oh, no," Garad murmured

Boromir had never heard such defeat in his voice.

"They will reinforce the enemy lines between us and the city," Faramir said, equally sad.

"Such numbers," Eomer agreed. "We cannot hold."

"We _must!_" Boromir spat. "He will be here! I know it!"

"Boromir – " Faramir turned to him and there was a soft smile in his eyes. "Together."

That was the best they had imagined of their end in battle. That they might die together, go to the Halls of Mandos, together. Not leave the other to grieve.

"This is not our time!" Boromir insisted. "We can still win. We _will _win!"

"Not with the Corsairs of Umbar at our backs and the Mumakil ahead," Eomer said.

"Aragorn." Boromir groaned. "Where are you? You swore to me!"

A sudden flash of silver light caught his eye, a reflected sheen from the river far across the plain, beyond the battle. The others had seen it, too, were turning about.

The black sails collapsed

A banner unfurled from the mast of the leading ship.

A banner of sable and silver, a white tree and seven stars, bearing a winged crown. It shone in the late light.

"Aragorn!" Boromir wanted to shout for joy but overwhelming emotion closed his throat.

Faramir and Garad whooped and slapped his back. "You were right! The horn, Boromir. Now is the time, if ever it was."

Boromir, still staring mesmerized at the banner, blinked and said, "The horn?"

Faramir tugged at its strap and pulled it up to him.

Then, Boromir found himself grinning and laughing like a fool. He gripped his brother's arm as he held Boromir's shoulder.

"Let the enemy know this. Gondor lives! Gondor has a King!"

He brought the horn to his lips and blew one long resounding blast. It echoed from the White City's walls, to the Tower of Ecthelion, and further to Mindolluin's heights. Then it rebounded, swept in a tide of triumph to the Anduin, there to salute the return of the King.

**

Liel looked up as the second wave of wounded arrived with bearers hauling laden stretchers. She recognized one of the wounded Captains as one of Boromir's aides-de-camp. With Pippin at her side, she went to him, quickly checked his arm wound, and asked, "How are we faring out there? The wounded are being affected by the Nazguls. They were flying close, it seems."

"That is true, My Lady. But now…" he looked away from her gaze. "They have gone out over the Pelennor again."

"Good for us, not so for the Rohirrim."

"No, My Lady." Still he would not look at her.

There was something about his evasive manner that worsened the nagging alarms in Liel's heart. "Did Boromir send any word?" The Man shook his head, wincing as she probed the arm. "Where is he fighting now?"

"Umm, I have not seen him recently."

Liel looked to the orderly, who quickly avoided her eyes. "Have you seen him?"

"No, My Lady."

"_Someone_ must have seen him, or heard where he is."

The orderly flinched, straightened. "They say, well, they say, he's missing."

She tensed, frowned. "Missing? What do you mean 'missing'?'

"That can't be good," Pippin muttered. "Maybe I should go look for him?"

"No, you stay here, for now, but thank you. Hand me that roll of bandaging and the scissors. " He did so, and she said, "Hold that for me." She looked down at the officer. "You must know something more, surely." Horror blossomed suddenly, and she froze. "We've had Men come in who were dug out from beneath collapsed walls."

"No, no," he said quickly, his good hand touching hers, then withdrawing just as quickly. "It's not that. We're certain."

"How can you say he's missing, yet be certain he's not trapped?"

"I –" The Man glanced down at the bandaging she was wrapping about his arm. "When I was hurt, I lost consciousness."

"Dammit!"

Another lot of orderlies appeared, and she turned to growl at them. "You, over here!" They obeyed. "Some of you must know where Gondor's Captain General has taken himself off to."

"My Lady," They chorused, all looking shiftily from one to the other. "I'm not doing it," she just heard one mumble to his companion.

"Not doing what?" She resisted the urge to take the Man by his collar and shake him. "What is it you're hiding?"

"They're afraid to tell you."

"Elena!" Liel breathed relief and swung to her. Turning, seeing what her First Companion held in her hands, Liel gasped. Boromir's sword, and helm. Sounds echoed dully about her, Pippin's shocked breath loud at her elbow, the room receded, she could see only Boromir's weapon. Her legs trembled beneath her.

"That's Boromir's sword," Pippin said, hoarse and choked.

She lay her hand to his shoulder, felt him trembling as much as she. Elena hurried closer, her dirty face streaked with tears.

"I am sorry," she said. "He was taken by a Nazgul's mount." She tried to say something more, to offer comfort, Liel supposed, but her voice broke. She simply held out the sword.

Liel took it, clasped it to her, then sat down slowly on the nearest bed. The wounded Man there was watching her, his young face ashen, his eyes glimmering, filmed with moisture the same that made Liel's vision blur. Everyone in the room was watching her, she realised. Pippin was standing at her side, weeping silently, brokenly.

She gathered herself, wiped a hand at the wetness on her cheeks. Stood. Every head turned to watch her.

"He was fighting," Elena said, "Even as it carried him off. We tried to shoot it… but…"

Liel nodded. She closed her eyes then inhaled sharp and long. She lifted her hand and touched the shield at her throat. She could feel him, somewhere. She exhaled and sagged in relief.

"My heart tells me he yet lives," she said firmly. She did not have his body. She would not believe it until he lay dead in her arms.

Elena nodded, said nothing.

That could be worse than death, for if he were taken captive…. Liel forced her thoughts from that image. She held tight to the hilt of the sword.

"It dropped him," one of the orderlies confessed. "We saw it. Out over the Pelennor."

A profound silence followed the announcement.

"How high?" Pippin asked the question she wanted when her voice failed her.

"High," the Man said. "At least as high as the second level."

Another silence, broken by several sobbing sounds about the room. There were muttered comments, friends trying to comfort others, grieving thick in their tone.

"He will return." Liel said, raising her voice over the beginning tide of sorrow. "And when he does, he will need this." She carried the sword to the wall by the front door and leaned it against it. Then, she turned and swept her gaze about all those watching her, taking their lead from her, drawing hope or despair as she willed.

"He will return," she repeated. "He will be fighting."

"We fight!" Elena took up the call.

They repeated the rallying call and as it came back, Liel did what Boromir would, commanding the change, "For Gondor!"

"Gondor!" the chant went up, rippling through them all.

As it settled at last, she saw they were now nodding and talking amongst themselves again, her confidence spreading to them. She wondered if she had given them false hope. Then Elena smiled at her, still holding Boromir's helm. Liel saw that it was dented. Worry ate at her. How could he possibly survive being dropped by a Nazgul into the midst of fierce battle?

He must. He would.

She turned back to work. "It'll be all right, Pippin, " she told her small assistant, deliberately throwing her voice for all to hear. "You know how much a survivor he is. You have seen his sword fallen from his hand, and witnessed his return."

"That's true," Pippin said with a beginning, shaky smile. "I've lost count of the number of times we thought him dead. Then he was there, grinning and scolding as if he'd never frightened us half to death."

"Exactly. So.." she turned to the orderly, asked, "Who do I tend first? Who is the more badly hurt?"

"This fellow," the orderly nodded down at a Man who lay still, eyes closed, a rough bloodied bandage reddening further about his head.

Liel crouched down, began checking his pulse, lifting the edges of the bandage. "Hot water," she told Pippin. "And—"

A single ringing pure note, as clear and warming as sunlight, the first gleam of dawn.

"The Horn of Gondor!" Pippin said. He swung to the window as if he could see Boromir there. "He's alive!"

"It's the King's banner! I swear it!" Those by the window began calling. "On the river! Come see!"

"He salutes him," Elena said, wonder in her voice. She began to smile, and the light carried by the horn's call shone in her eyes.

Liel, who had found strength for all in the room, could hold back no longer. She sobbed once, lifted her hand to press against her lips, then fixed her gaze on the sword. Someone moved away from the window, making room for another, and in the break, sunlight lanced inward, bathed the hilt. The silver flared, scattering in a sunburst throughout the room, touching everyone present.

Then the cheering began.

Boromir lived.

"Let us go greet him, shall we?" Eomer suggested. "Theoden already turns the column to come to our aid. We will soon have mounts once more."

Then the Witch King's screeching wail wrenched the joy from their hearts. The fell beast swooped low, engulfing them in its shadow before speeding overhead.

"It seeks my uncle," Eomer said, an anguished whisper. He pushed through the ranks of his Men. They had seen it, too.

Even as Boromir stepped after them, it was too late.

Caught in the open as he turned to come to his nephew's aid, Theoden had no chance. The fell beast caught the white horse, Snowmane, and Theoden both, slashing as it lifted.

The horse's pure white flank and belly streamed scarlet blood. Then, horse and rider were a blur, rolling and twisting, tossed away like broken toys. Boromir looked away before the moment of impact, tears blurring his sight.

"No!" Eomer bellowed

Boromir fought murderously, Faramir to his right, Garad his left, Eomer beserk, rent by grief, leading the charge.

"The Witch King!" Faramir cried.

Over the milling, hacking enemy and Rohirrim, Boromir saw the unmistakable helm, the swing of that awful mace. The fell beast had landed, its wraith rider, urging it to feed on the fallen Theoden.

Eomer's cry was unintelligible, savage fury, desperate frustration. He could not possibly move that fast, force his way so quickly through rank upon rank of Orcs eager for blood.

Then, the beast recoiled. Its head flew in a spray of dark blood, severed from the stump of neck, that writhed, then collapsed.

A single Rohirrim, sword in hand, stood defiant, protecting his dying King. But must surely die in turn. Boromir's arms and shoulders ached with the strain of hacking and chopping, ducking and lunging, again and again and again. The enemy fell with every blow, but more poured in like water to a drain, unstoppable. Boromir struggled to keep sight of the brave Rider.

The hissing of the Witch King's voice carried over the sounds of battle.

"No Man may kill me."

So close yet still too far, the enemy blocking their assault.

"I am no Man."

A _Woman!_

Boromir looked up in shock. He knew that voice. He pivoted in time to see a spill of golden hair. "Eowyn!"

Faramir staggered and gasped. Boromir whirled terribly afraid. He clapped a hand to Faramir's shoulder, drew him close, while gutting the nearest Orc. "Faramir!" he yelled, shaking him, could see no wound. He was unharmed, standing, staring, a wild kind of joy lighting his eyes. A vision, -- what? Boromir spun back, swamped by Eomer's begging plea, "Sister!"

Faramir lunged into a sudden break, drove his sword into an Easterling. Ahead, the Wraith recoiled from an unseen blow, fell to its knees. Faramir's aim went wide on the next strike, his eyes riveted on Eowyn. Boromir fought for them both, as did Garad. Boromir glanced back toward Eowyn. And his blood ran cold. A small figure, and impossibly familiar figure, stumbling away from the wounded Witch King.

"Merry!"

Now, it was Boromir who stumbled in shock, and Faramir and Garad who saved him.

Garbed in Rohan green and gold, Merry, appearing somewhere he should never have been, disappeared, smothered by the wall of war.

Eowyn's blade sang, shedding light.

The Witch King crumpled in on itself, was no more.

Boromir's vision hazed red. His own voice, bellowing thunder, roaring threat. None would stop him reaching Merry, reaching Eowyn.

Blades hummed all about, flaring silver, black, red. The group of Easterlings, brave fighters, turned, retreating from the slaughter, hacking their way through Orcs, anything to escape the beserker blades dripping red.

Boromir felt the thrum of battle lust sing through his veins and rejoiced in it. A little more and he would find Merry. He _must_ find Merry!

His arm came round in another mighty sweep that took an Orc and left him cut in half. Boromir's boots slipped and regained purchase again and again on the gore and muck of battle, the tight group forging steadily, then faster forward. The Easterlings' eyes were wide with terror

Against their dark scarves and face plates. They tried to flee, held by the press at their backs.

And suddenly, there were no more enemy to kill. Open space, sky, blood-slick grass and dead bodies, corpses enemy and ally.

Eomer fell to his knees by his wounded sister. She breathed.

"Merry!" Boromir bellowed, frantic.

Ever so faint. "Boromir? Help."

"He's trapped under this!" Garad called.

Boromir whirled, dropped , pushed with Garad at the mutilated dead something.

A glimmer of gold against the red and black drenched earth. Merry's curly hair. Boromir sobbed, drew him gently into his arms. There was blood on his so small, so white face.

"Is it really you?" Merry said.

"Yes, I'm here. You'll be all right now. You'll be all right." He drew back, asked, "Where are you hurt? Your head?"

"Only a scratch. But I'm so cold, so very cold."

Boromir was not wearing a cloak. Garad pulled off his and gave it over. Boromir quickly gently wrapped Merry in its folds.

"We'll get you warm," he promised. "We'll get you safe."

"The lady?" Merry asked, anxiously.

Boromir looked for answer to Faramir who stood with a hand to Eomer's shoulder as he cradled his sister.

"She lives," he answered and again Boromir caught that strange fey light in his brother's eyes. "She will be safe." Eomer looked up sharply at Faramir's certain tone. He did not question it, but drew comfort from it.

Boromir realising the mood, asked, "And Merry?"

"The same," he said, with a smile. There was brimming joy in his expression that was puzzling and good at the same time. If he didn't know better he'd say his brother had been into the brandy.

"There are less enemy," Garad reported, returning breathlessly. "I can see our Men beyond the Mumakil carcasses. And something else, something strange – the Orcs flee before it." He sounded so rattled that Boromir looked away from Merry. Garad was still staring off across the field, frowning. Catching Boromir looking at him, he flashed his usual cheeky grin and added, "It's good, but it's… creepy."

"Creepy?" Boromir felt hope and relief flooding him. "The Oath-breakers?"

"I don't know. I've never seen one before."

Boromir made sure of his hold on Merry and stood, cradling him in his arms. He had to see this.

"Aragorn's here?" Merry asked, faintly.

"Yes." Boromir said, preoccupied.

Merry shifted, trying to sit up straighter. "Where?"

"Wherever the enemy are retreating, I'd say," Garad looked at him with a smile. "I take it you're Merry?"

"Well, yes, but how did you -- ? Oh that's right. I'd almost forgotten! Pippin is here!" he hesitated. "But not… right here. Right?"

"No, safe in the Citadel."

"And damn lucky he's not here." Boromir scowled toward Eomer.

"He disobeyed orders." Eomer said, looking up at them. "And your courage in that disobedience, Merry, saved my sister's life," he added intently, holding Merry's gaze.

"We tried to save him –" Merry said, very earnest, tears gleaming in his eyes. "I'm sorry."

Eomer nodded, turned back.

Merry shuddered and kept shaking, clamping his jaws hard. Boromir knew his chattering teeth would be nipping his tongue. The Shadow was biting hard.

_And you weren't dead._

Suddenly, Boromir was back in the icy river water, struggling to stay awake, to keep the Ring's treachery at bay.

The chill would be worse from the Witch King. Boromir was suddenly terrified for Merry. Eomer had seen his sister's shivering fit, too. He removed his thick, green cloak and wrapped her in it. Boromir looked about for something, anything. Faramir quickly offered his cloak. Boromir was grateful to have some more warmth to offer his small, wounded friend.

An impossibly sweet, fresh breeze cooled Boromir's face, rifling the edges of his filthy, sweat slick hair. Then, as more enemy fell or ran, he saw it. A forest, a green glowing sea of ghostly shapes, soldiers. Dead soldiers.

The Oath-breakers were no longer foresworn.

"He did it. He's real."

Faramir's tone both amused and touched Boromir. He sounded like he was six years old again, and Boromir had miraculously produced exactly the birthday gift he had been afraid to ask for.

"_They're _real!" Garad corrected, equally stunned.

Amusement won. Boromir snorted. "And they're here. Maybe we should go meet them."

"_Them_?" Garad squeaked. "_All?" _Re-gathering his nonchalance, he said, "I'll nip back and get the red carpet then, shall I? Warn Her Grace that there'll be company for supper?"

"I did not believe it could be done," Faramir said, awed. "He truly is King."

"If only they had arrived a few moments earlier." Tears streaked Eomer's gore-splattered face. "She is gravely ill."

"She knew she had to be here," Faramir said, with that same eerie sense of timelessness.

Boromir locked eyes with his Rohirrim friend. "You have seen the Healing Aragorn and Gandalf bring. She will be well, you have my promise."

"I know it," Eomer nodded again and hope lit his dark eyes at last. "Go, greet him for me. I will follow as soon as –"

"No," Boromir said. "I will bring him to you." He frowned down at Merry.

"I'll be all right here, til you get back," Merry said. "I want to stay by the Lady in case she wakes."

"Bad idea," Gimli rumbled somewhere ahead, just in front of the ranks of ghosts. "These lads are good in a fight."

Boromir wanted to laugh for joy. He had missed them, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli. Now, if only Sam and Frodo could rejoin them they would at last be whole, be The Fellowship once more.

"I hold your oaths fulfilled," Aragorn told the King of the Dead. "Go. Be at peace."

His great sigh of release echoed in the breeze that stirred the banners on the field of battle. Briefly it became a wind that swirled and tore about the ghosts. Then, they were gone.

"Now what?" Gimli said.

"Perhaps a hello?" Boromir suggested from behind the trio.

"Boromir!"

Gimli's joyful surprise was genuine. Legolas turned, equal pleasure in his blue eyes, but a soft knowing smile on his lips that told Boromir he had known all along.

Then, as Gimli embraced him, Boromir met Aragorn's eyes. Weariness, understanding that this victory might yet be the only one they would know. It was all there.

Boromir shook his head, clasped Legolas' shoulder. He stepped toward Aragorn and said, "I knew you'd come."

"Boromir."

Aragorn's arms pulled him close, hugged him hard. For the briefest moment, he brought his head to Boromir's shoulder, and Boromir heard a faint sobbing breath. He knew then that Aragorn had no words, could find no words equal to his emotion. Eighty seven long years. And for Gondor, nigh on a thousand, had brought them both to this moment.

They drew apart, hands on each other's shoulders. Aragorn began to smile.

Boromir half-turned , reached out a hand to where he knew Faramir stood close at his shoulder. "Aragorn, meet –"

"Faramir. "

"My King," Faramir gave a bow and saluting flourish with his gory sword.

"Was it the nose?" Boromir said irreverently.

Aragorn laughed. "No, Boromir. The stories, the many, many stories."

"I am not sure you should give them too much weight, My Lord," Faramir said, smiling.

"Aragorn," he returned.

Faramir smiled. "As you wish. I would introduce my friend –"

"Garad." Aragorn greeted, pleased with being able to show off his knowledge. "And I would have you meet my companions, Gimli, son of Gloin, Lord of the Khazad, and Legolas Greenleaf, Prince of Mirkwood."

He had tended the wounded first, Boromir noted, leaving his grieving for last.

"I am come too late."

Aragorn collapsed to his knees by Eomer and Theoden. Eomer and his Men had arrayed the dead King on a bier. It was not as ugly as seeing him pinned by his beloved, bloodied and broken dead horse. Yet, it was worse somehow. Final.

"You are come in answer to our need," Boromir said, his voice carrying to the grim and weeping Rohirrim gathered about them. "You are come with life, My King, _life_! You have dared where no other could. From the Paths of Dead you bring Theoden King victory! Mordor knows it cannot stand against us! Gondor!" He shook Aragorn's shoulder, "Rohan!" he took Eomer's shoulder with the other hand. "We ride! Mordor dies!"

Boromir drew his stained sword in a ring and hiss of steel over leather. Holding it high, arm outstretched, he shouted, "Ride!"

A hundred swords sang and shone in the sunlight. "Ride!"

"He has a way with words, doesn't he, lad!" Gimli slapped Faramir's back.

"I have often said so, though he claims his talent is to keep it short. More time for drinking!"

"Ha! Yes! Indeed! I would give much for a long cold beer."

"Come, then, friend Gimli, Legolas. You shall have your ale."

Boromir returned to them, Merry once again swaddled warm in his arms.

"How is he?" Faramir asked.

"A little better."

"Eowyn woke briefly to Aragorn's call," Faramir said, with pleasure.

"Yes. I saw it," Boromir reminded him with a fondly amused smile. "Time to get Merry to a warm bed and much rest."

"I can walk," Merry said. "You are wounded. You don't have to carry me."

"Oh, but I do. Pippin would never let me hear the end of it."

"Pippin," Merry said with a great smile and settled back.

"None of us need walk," Faramir pointed out. "There are plenty of horses."


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

They all dismounted at the foot of the steps. With his sister in his arms, Eomer had quickly disappeared inside the Houses of Healing, Aragorn with him. Boromir was close behind, carrying Merry.

Standing with all his weight on one foot, leaning on his horse, Garad did not follow. He fidgeted with the horse's bridle, pretending the animal needing soothing. The stall worked, at least for the moment, Faramir hurried away, following his brother.

Garad dared put his weight on his other foot. It hurt. A lot. But he was fairly certain he could make it alone up the steps and into one of the side wards. There a fellow Ranger-Healer could stitch the wound. And Garad would not have taken Boromir or Faramir away from their more immediate concerns. He didn't need them fussing over him for a minor wound.

Squish squish squeak. Squish. Every step hurt more badly. Worse every step threatened to reveal his injury. Garad grabbed the stone balustrade, hopped a few steps. Then, there was no more balustrade to help and he had to go back to wincing and cursing under his breath as he entered the hall. Growing ever louder, the blood sloshing in his boot seemed determined on giving him.

"Is that you?"

Faramir had stopped and was frowning back at him.

Garad shrugged and looked around as if to see who Faramir was talking to.

"It is you." Faramir looked down.

Dammit some of the blood was leaking through the seams of his boot.

"What did you do?"

"What did _I_ do? Garad exclaimed indignantly. He sounded to his own ears uncannily like Boromir.

Faramir approached.

"Look, it's minor. There are others who need your skills and Talent more."

Faramir looked unhappy, knowing Garad was right. The compromise would be that he'd have to allow fussing at least as far as the door.

"Idiot. You should have said something." Faramir's arm slipped around his shoulders, taking his weight off the throbbing foot.

Garad couldn't quite contain the sigh of relief. Faramir shook his head and gave a disgusted snort. But thankfully he didn't say idiot again.

"How bad is it?"

"It'll scar."

Faramir shook his head again. "Check with Boromir on that. Kiss it and make it feel better, y'know. He'll tell you that you need to have them aim higher.

"Higher? How high?"

Faramir held a hand close to crotch level.

"Your brother's a pervert!" Garad said cheerfully.

Faramir smirked. "Frequently. And a very happy one if last night is anything to go by."

"Oh yeah, he did take a thigh wound, didn't he?" Garad said in self-consolation. "But, start on the foot, work your way up isn't so bad." Another hobbling step. "And Boromir's an idiot. You don't want anything sharp anywhere near that high."

Faramir's smirk deepened. "Not even teeth?"

"Especially not teeth."

"Here we are, idiot's ward."

"Thanks. So much. Tell Boromir I'll be waiting for him." He tapped his forehead.

"Oh yes, he'll hope we don't remember that." Faramir gave an aggrieved sigh.

A page boy opened the door for them. Inside was the usual organized chaos, with elderly or crippled retired Rangers tending the walking wounded. Or in his case, the limping wounded.

"Garad?" Herion. Now grey-haired, scarred face and limping, Garad nonetheless recognized him as the Ranger who had schooled him in battlefield medicine. He called from where he was finishing with his current patient, "Figured you'd be here sooner or later." He came closer, squatted, and studied the slashed and bloodied boot. "Looks like that's all the way to the bone. What did you do this time?"

"Dammit. As I keep saying – _I_ didn't do it! The Easterling bastard cut me from behind, on the ground." He hesitated and dropped his voice. "Then again, I did step on him. And he was just a kid."

Herion shook his head. "You gotta make sure they're dead."

Faramir gave Garad a grimly understanding look before lowering him to sit on a chair, handing him off to Herion. Garad sighed heavily and submitted. Stitching he could take. But it would be nice if they'd just leave out the lectures. Of course, he gave them more often than he received them, so maybe he shouldn't complain.

"Get some rest and keep your weight off that foot." Faramir cuffed his head and turned to go.

"Faramir?" He looked back. "Make sure you eat before you start in there."

"Yes, mother."

Garad gave him the two-fingered salute.

Faramir was smiling as he left the room.

With Merry asleep or unconscious in his arms, Boromir entered the main ward to the expected din. Moans of wounded Men, orderlies shouting for assistance, people hurrying in all directions, more wounded arriving in a constant stream, being assessed and directed to the appropriate area. He had learned not to look toward the operating tables, though he knew he might have to this time -- Liel would most likely be working there.

"My Lord?" An orderly stopped at his side and lifted a corner of the cloak from about Merry. "You found a wounded child?"

"A warrior. My friend, Merry. A Perian. A Halfling," Boromir said, using the term the Man would perhaps best understand. "He needs the Shadow Ward." He did not look at the orderly, his eyes scanning the room for Liel. Finally, he found her, up to her elbows in blood, bent to her work with a badly hurt Rohirrim.

She must have felt his eyes on her. She glanced up, saw him. Her eyes widened and misted over. She gasped a sobbing breath and hurriedly lifted a hand to her lips. But she could not press against the tremor there; her hands were too gory. She nodded and he nodded back, smiling, tears stinging his eyes. He walked closer, Merry still in his arms.

"I'll be right back," he said, tilting his head toward the Shadow Ward door where the orderly waited.

"Merry?" she asked.

"Yes. Where's Pippin?"

"Running an errand. Faramir? Garad?"

"Safe. Right behind me." Boromir glanced over his shoulder, frowned. "Or, they were." He turned back, smiled again, and asked, "Where's our daughter?"

"With Beth. The kitchens are warmest."

"Good." He blew a kiss over Merry's head and continued on into the other Ward.

Aragorn, Eomer and Eowyn were already there. He could hear Aragorn calling softly to her, smell the clean, refreshing scent of athelas. Eomer sat on the other side of the bed, his fingers tight about his sister's good hand. He alternated frowning worry from her to Aragorn and back. It suddenly struck Boromir as odd that Faramir was not already here with them. After Aragorn, he had the greatest Talent in healing those who had fallen prey to the Black Breath.

"Over here, My Lord," the orderly said. "A bed for your friend."

Boromir very gently lay Merry down atop the grey blanket placed protectively over the clean white sheets and soft pillows. The orderly would strip him and give him a quick going over with a warm wash cloth before placing him beneath the covers. Boromir noted the Man had found a small tunic that would fit. He knew there were children hurt, lying in small beds in another ward, but none of them, thankfully, had been directly harmed by Nazgul.

"Make sure there's athelas in the water," Aragorn called to the orderly bring the steaming wash water closer. Aragorn gave Boromir a brief smile, somehow aware of his arrival despite the battle to draw Eowyn away from the Shadow.

"How is he?"

Faramir's voice.

Boromir turned to him with relief. "I don't know."

Faramir nodded and bent to take Merry's hand.

"Where's Garad?"

"Idiot ward," Faramir said and a faint smile drove the grimness from his eyes as he studied Merry's pale face.

"I didn't know he was hurt. Bad?"

"No. Foot. He'll be all right. When you see him, be sure to ask him what he's done to himself." The smile grew a little wider and Boromir nodded, recognizing a teasing joke in the making.

"What do you think?"

Faramir sighed heavily and stroked the golden curls back from the bloodied cut on Merry's brow. "He has many who love him, and loves them in return. The Shadow will not claim him. He will soon waken."

Boromir sagged with such relief that he staggered a little. Faramir frowned up at him and he covered, hurriedly saying, "Pippin will want to be with him. I'll send him to you if I find him." He gripped Faramir's shoulder gratefully and left.

Faramir frowned worriedly after his brother for a long moment, then gathering himself, he closed his eyes, concentrating, and whispering Merry's name.

He relished the gust of hot air that hit him as he opened the kitchen doors. He was so damm cold. At least holding Merry had helped keep back the chill. Entering the Healing House kitchens, Boromir braced himself for the expected weeping and glad reunion. Another return from the dead explanation was in order. He was beginning to hate that about his life. But unexpectedly, Beth simply smiled and looked up at him from over her cooking, her plump face flushed with heat and steam, her grey hair poking out in disarrayed strands from beneath her kerchief cap.

_Ahh, _ Boromir realised, _no one's told her. Good. _ Relief flooded him – while Liel was a warrior in her own right, and understood the dangers, Beth had been Boromir and Faramir's nanny and thus was more inclined to be motherly.

Finished with her stirring, she hurried over to him, the smile beginning to switch to the fussing one. Then, he saw why as she collected a wash basin, filled it with hot water, and began carrying it to him, a towel over her arm. He was indeed far too filthy to be in a kitchen.

"I'm not hungry," Boromir told her. "Where's Liramir?"

"Over there, by the hearth. But you can't –"

"She's asleep?" Beth nodded. "I won't wake her." He lifted his dirty hands. "And I won't touch her."

"You should eat something, and you must wash your hands. They're disgusting."

Boromir sighed, he would be gory and dirty again soon enough, going in search of wounded among the dead on the battlefield. But the feel of hot water would be welcome. He took the steaming wash basin and towel from her and set them down on the bench by the cradle, close by the warmth of the hearth. He intended to wash his hands and enjoy watching his baby daughter at the same time. But he found the sight so mesmerizing he got more soapy water on his surcote and trousers then on his hands. He wanted so badly to stay here, to enjoy the warmth, to allow himself to feel the weariness and pain that gnawed ever harder, and most of all, to simply watch his daughter sleep. He could still scarce believe he was a father, that this elven beauty was his daughter.

But, as ever, there was no time. His Men would be waiting and he must return to the field. He wanted to be with the ambulance crews, to help gather the wounded, and reassure them with his presence. He must issue orders for those not wounded, dismiss the most weary to rest, and set shifts. He needed to check, to be sure his Rohirrim allies were well quartered and fed, then he must find the City engineers and check the damage to the walls. And he must comfort his frightened and grieving people.

He must hurry.

He sluiced some of the wonderfully warm water on to his face and checked it was clean enough. Then, he leaned down, kissed his sleeping daughter's curls, and very gently touched his nose to hers, finding it incredible she was so delicate, so perfectly formed. Smiling, he straightened. A wave of cold grabbed at him, made him shudder.

"You're cold?" Beth frowned at him. "How can you be cold in here?"

"I'm not cold, " he lied. "I was just thinking of something."

She seemed ready to accept that explanation, imagining battle-field horrors. "Faramir? Garad?"

"Faramir is healing those who came under the Shadow. Garad is safe, but he's one of the walking wounded."

"Oh, then he'll be in the Idiots' Ward." She snorted at Boromir's expression. "I might have guessed. I'll send him some of his favorite food."

"He'll like that." Boromir bent and kissed the top of her head. "I have to go. Thank you for all your work."

She blushed at the compliment even as she waved it away. "Tis only right we care for you all. You look tired. Be sure you rest soon."

The shivering returned, worse than ever, as the kitchen doors swung closed at his back. The sun had set, the sky an angry dull red between the curved arches of the colonnade. The chill of dusk was a stark contrast to the heat inside. He wrapped his arms tightly about himself. Any wounded still lying on the ground out there would be feeling it much worse. There would be so many it could take all night to find and bring them in. He didn't like to admit how much it upset him to think of his liege-Men, the brave Riders, still out there, hurting, waiting, dying... They would be harder to find in the dark, and Legolas and Gandalf couldn't be everywhere.

He didn't want to take the time but he would go get his head wound stitched next. Liel was expecting him, and if he walked in there without that wound tended; she'd want to do it. And ask awkward questions. They would only have moments, spending that brief time being stitched up by his wife wasn't exactly what he had in mind. If he could hold her, just for two minutes, he could get warm, he could truly feel they'd won.

Garad looked up as Boromir entered. His scalp wound was still wrapped in the same filthy bandage. Things must be bad in the main ward, but then they'd have to be. In fact, bad would be a gross understatement. Boromir, as Garad himself, would have insisted his minor wound could be cleaned, stitched and dressed elsewhere. Knowing Boromir, it was a marvel that he was willing to take that much time away from his Men. Then it came to him, Boromir would want to see Liel, even for a moment, and he didn't want her fussing.

"They told me I'd find you here," Boromir said. "Faramir said to ask you what you'd done to yourself?"

"Very funny." Garad had stopped falling into that trap. He simply pointed at his freshly bandaged foot, propped high on a chair cushioned by somebody's blood-stained clothing.

"Ahh."

"Sit down here, please, General."

Boromir obeyed, groaning under his breath. Garad figured that was the pain in his back, but he didn't dare mention it if Boromir would not.

This filthy bandage came off. The Ranger-Healer hissed through his teeth.

"This looks bad, My Lord."

"Just clean it and stitch it," Boromir growled.

"Yes, My Lord."

"How's your small friend?" Garad asked.

Boromir smiled. "Faramir says he'll be all right. He's Calling him."

"Calling?"

"The Shadow."

"Oh." Garad said after a moment, "He'll be busy."

"He is. Ow."

"Sorry, My Lord. I'm having trouble getting the bleeding to stop."

"Then just wrap it up again. I need to get going."

"My Lord, you're shivering."

"It's cold in here."

"No, it's not." Garad gestured to the roaring hearth fire. Boromir gave him a glare. He subsided.

"Blood loss will make you cold. And tired. You should rest."

"It's a scratch. Strap it. I've work to do."

"So do I. That being, a duty of care," Herion said flatly, not fazed by Boromir's irritation. "You fell from a great height. I strongly recommend that you stay here and rest. Now. My Lord."

"Thank you. I'll take that under advisement. My Men need me, and I'd like to see Her Grace before I go to them. Strap it or I'll do it myself."

Herion pressed his lips together and sighed heavily. Garad knew what the Man was thinking -- she'll deal with him. That eased Garad's concern a little, too. He had seen Herion's thwarted, exasperated worry on so many faces, especially Faramir's, when dealing with an obstinate Boromir. The old Ranger set to work, sullenly, efficiently and probably much more gently than Garad would have done it under the circumstances. Boromir always compared any wound he himself carried against those of acute care cases – if he could still breathe, still walk, he should still be on duty. And in Boromir's case, it seemed, even death was no excuse.

Garad could sympathise, he felt the same way. But his own injury had proven impossible to conceal. He scowled glumly at the white bandage about his foot; even harder to hide now. He could still be useful, helping with the stitching and bandaging did not require walking or standing. He looked again to Herion, realised the Man was none too happy about letting Boromir leave, even with Her Grace to double check. Only Faramir would have been able to stop Boromir now.

Boromir leaned against the wall, behind Liel who worked on removing the mangled mess that had been a Man's right arm. Boromir was uncertain if he was a Man of Gondor or of Rohan. He was naked but for the sheet laid over him. So very young. At least he was out of pain, for now, dosed with poppy until unconscious. Boromir shifted uncomfortably, guilty, that he was still here and not out there with other young Men who were similarly hurt.

Liel had, as ever, noticed his discomfit. She finished washing her hands quickly, turned to him with arms outstretched. He smiled and gathered her to him, engulfing her in his embrace. She was too tall for him to rest his head on hers, but she slumped down, sensing his need, and her own as she rested her head against his chest.

Why was it that this simple act better than anything else, always lessened the horror of the day? Weariness washed over him. Then he remembered something else.

"Pippin!"  
"What about him?"

Boromir scrubbed a hand over his cold face. "I forgot, I was going to try and find him. He doesn't know about Merry."

"He might guess he could be among the wounded."

"No. Merry was supposed to stay in Edoras."

"Oh." She considered, stroking his face lightly with her fingertips. "When he comes back, I'll call Faramir to him. He can better explain his… wounds."

She ran her hands up under his tunic and the flat of her palms brushed over his nipples. He drew a sighing breath. He knew she was probing for injury, but he chose to take it otherwise.

"A little public," he said with a sly grin. "And try lower. I think I strained that wound."

"Hush. Are you sure you're all right?" Her skilled fingers did go lower but only to press against his spleen, his liver, then his kidneys, doing the usual soft tissue check. "Cave trolls aren't that soft."

"These were. Very squishy in fact. Who told you?"

He tidied the strand of dark hair that had come free of her braid, tucking it back into the glossy dark mass of her hair. She gave him a reproving look. "Everyone." Her hands explored lower, one tugging at his waist band allowing the other to slip in. She gave his cup a little shake. "Good. Not dented."

He shrugged and smirked. "You know what a hard Man I am."

She snorted and smiled. Her hands reached behind, squeezed then slapped his butt. "Egotist."

He grinned then kissed her, long and lingering. Eventually, he noticed everything had gone suddenly quieter. He looked up. Everyone was watching them and suddenly they hurried back to work. He noted they were all smiling. He felt much better himself.

"I must go."

She gently traced the bandage about his forehead. "I'm glad you had the sense to get this tended at least." He lifted a hand to draw hers to his lips. She sighed, bracing to leave him, to return to her awful, bloody work. "I can't find anything else hurt, but you don't look right. Don't stay out there all night. There are others who can finish looking for the wounded and talk to the civilians."

He nodded but avoided her eyes. He would not come in until every area had been thoroughly searched. She knew that. She sighed again, reading his thought. He kissed the top of her head and turned to go.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, one hand going to her brow. "I can't believe I almost forgot. Your sword, I left it in the Main Ward, against the wall, just inside the door. I wanted them all to see when --"

"You found it!" Some of his strength returned in the rush of welcome. His sword was almost a part of him; they had been through so much together over the years.

She smiled at his reaction but her eyes darkened as she recalled. "Elena brought it to me."

He stepped back and gripped her hand again. He would not have been able to bear it had their positions been reversed and he been told she had been taken by a Nazgul. Dead, or worse.

"I told them you would want it when you returned," she said softly. "Then, we heard the horn."

He snorted. "It's becoming useful at last. "

She looked down at the floor. "Yes." With her smile recovered, she met his eyes once more. "Your helm's in there, too. It _is_ dented. Rock meets rock."

He laughed and kissed her again. He left and walked across the hall and into the crowded Main Ward. Every bed was filled with pallid, bruised and broken, bandaged Men. Every tiny space had been crammed with more beds, and now they were placing Men on mattresses on the floor. He stared at them, remembered to smile, and turned to get his sword.

The room erupted in cheering. "Boromir!"

He turned back. "Rohan! Gondor! You have given our King victory." Slowly, intently, he saluted them with the sword. Every Man there returned the salute as best he could, silently, earnestly, there eyes shining with the same emotion that blurred Boromir's own vision.

He walked out into the night and the chill claimed him again, sudden and sharp as stepping into ice water.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

"Take a break, Garad," Herion urged, "You've been at it hours now, and you're supposed to be a patient, not an orderly." He pointed at the armchair by the hearth. It had been recently vacated as the wounded Man there had been taken off to a bed.

Garad nodded. "Thanks. Maybe I will."

"No maybes about it. That's an order."

Garad smiled tiredly. "Yes, sir." He put down the stack of bandages and blankets he had crammed under one arm so he could keep his grip on his makeshift crutch with the other. It was only a broom but it served nicely to keep him upright and moving, tending the never-ending stream of walking wounded. Thankfully, that stream at last had reduced to a trickle. Things were quieter, Men who had come in some time ago, now fed, warm, and medicated, had succumbed to exhausted sleep.

Garad's foot throbbed maddeningly. He hobbled over to the chair and collapsed into it, unable to avoid giving a groan of sheer relief.

"Idiot," Herion said gruffly, smiling as he carried a mug of steaming tea to him. "Get this into you, I dosed it with willowbark." Garad opened his mouth to protest and Herion held up his free hand. "Don't even think of telling me that foot doesn't hurt. And, for pity's sake get some sleep."

Garad accepted the tea and sipped at it.

"Here," the elderly Ranger added. "Get that foot up." He shoved some of the small mountain of bloodied clothing from a nearby foot-stool and prodded it closer. "Uh-uh," he said as Garad winced, trying to lift his foot. "Let me." He bent and gently eased the bandaged foot up onto the padded surface. "Better?"

"Yes, thanks." Garad rested his head on the chair back and closed his eyes.

A hand gripped his shoulder. "It is I owes you the thanks. There were many and you made the difference."

"Could we have some help here?" a voice called with the accent of Rohan.

Garad turned swiftly, sloshing some hot tea onto his hand. He cursed and sucked at the scald, then said, "Boromir?"

"Coming!" Herion said, waving at an orderly to assist. "Don't drop him."

Boromir and a Man garbed in Rohan green stood in the doorway, a third Man propped between them, his leg and face bloodied. Herion, orderly and Rohirrim got the Man to the treatment area at the back of the room. But it was Boromir's appearance that worried Garad.

"Boromir?" he asked again, standing and gathering his crutch.

Boromir did not reply, seemed not to have heard, or seen him. His face was dead white where it was visible through all the dirt and gore. The bandage was again stained, some of it with fresh red blood. His eyes were shadowed and glazed, unseeing and his hands trembled. In fact, his entire body was wracked with tremors that became more severe even as Garad watched.

Boromir stumbled forward, his groggy attention all for the hearth–fire. Garad followed at his side, asking, "Are you all right?"

Boromir swung his head toward him, and looked blearily around, finally settling for looking where his best guess told him Garad's voice was coming from. _Not good._ Boromir tried hard to give the impression that he was actually able to focus. Unfortunately for him, Garad had used that trick too many times not to recognise it.

"Sit down," Garad ordered, indicating the armchair.

"Cold."

Boromir continued a few steps until he was as close as possible to the fire without actually crawling into it. He stopped, blinked at it as if confused he had finally managed to find one. He stooped a little, began to lift his hands to warm them over the flames. Then he lurched dizzily. He reached for the mantle, got it with one hand, missed with the other. His grip was too weak, he began to fall sideways.

Garad dropped the broom and half-leapt, half-fell forward, hoping to cushion the impact and make sure he didn't roll into the fire. His arms wrapped about Boromir's torso, dragging him backward. The back of Garad's head hit the stone-flagged floor and for a moment everything faded into a grey ringing. He couldn't breathe, had all the air crushed from his lungs by Boromir's weight. He was pinned beneath him, unable to move. .

"Pick him up!" Herion's voice echoed. "Did he take another wound?"

"No." That was the Rohirrim, Garad assumed.

He shook his head dizzily, got an elbow under himself and sat up. Herion glanced down at him, said, "Well done."

"What's wrong with him?" Garad demanded. He could now see that Boromir was unconscious.

"The Shadow."

Aragorn. Thank the Valar!

"The Shadow --? How? When? I was with him after -- oh shit, of course, the Nazgul."

"We all heard about that," Herion sounded as disgusted with himself as Garad was. They should have realised. "Carry him into the Shadow Ward," he directed.

"No," Aragorn said, his gaze fixed on Boromir's still face. "The table. No time."

Herion obeyed immediately, responding to the undeniable authority despite the unknown newcomer's ragged appearance.

Aragorn assisted him, as grim as the army he had led to Gondor's relief. His jaw was set, his features as fine, stern and kingly as any of the statures in the great hall. But other than the expression, he looked more a vagabond. His hair clung about his face and shoulders in greasy strands, and his clothing was torn and worn through in places where dirt did not hold it together.

Garad could hear a baby screaming, its cries growing louder and sharper, coming closer. Liel stepped into the room, her eyes widening and her colour fading as she saw her collapsed husband. The infant in her arms wailed angrily. She moved quickly, as close to Boromir as possible without hindering his healers.

Aragorn bent over the unconscious man. "They mean to snatch victory from our grasp," he snarled.

"Why didn't any of us notice?" Herion asked.

"Because –" A steady, calming voice. Gandalf. "Boromir has withstood these attacks for months."

"This has gone on far too long," Liel said coldly. She shifted the baby into the crook of one arm, and then, with her free hand she tugged back the grimy bandage and inspected the head wound. Garad knew it was bleeding a little, but she would know it was not serious. He saw her arm move again, her fingers twining tightly through Boromir's, his limp and unresponsive.

"Yes," Gandalf nodded sadly. "First the Ring, and today, The Witch King. "

"He would not submit," Aragorn spat. "They have stopped trying to take him alive."

"He is the heart of Gondor," Liel said softly, her head bent over her crying child. "Gondor does not submit, while there is yet one of us alive to stand."

Aragorn nodded tersely at Gandalf. "Help the child."

Gandalf lifted his staff over her. A flash of blinding white light filled the room. When he could see again, Garad realised the baby was no longer crying.

"She is safe," Gandalf said. Aghast, Liel stared at him. "She is closely linked to her father. She was trying to follow."

Liel frowned down at her daughter. "Faramir does the same." She turned and looked toward the door. "Where is he?"

"He is not yet fully recovered from his ordeal at Denethor's order let alone the fatigue of battle. He was exhausted before he began Healing tonight." Gandalf appeared a little abashed nonetheless, as he explained, "I spelled him to sleep."

"Denethor attacked Faramir? Could he have had anything to do with this? A delayed curse?" Aragorn asked Gandalf, one hand to Boromir's chest, he studied the Man's ashen face.

"The name he was given made him a target of the Witch King since birth!" Liel snapped.

Garad, watching, saw her grasp clench so tightly on Boromir's hand, that it would have hurt had he been awake. Aragorn's head lifted, his expression registering the truth of her response as well as the release of terror from earlier in the day.

"It snatched him from the battlements before you arrived," Garad explained, blearily meeting Aragorn's eyes. He was too groggy to read the reaction but he heard the shocked intake of breath.

"He wanted him as a trophy for Sauron," Gandalf added.

Garad's eyes closed against that horror. Faramir was right, Boromir had been a deliberate target and they had meant to keep him. Garad drew a steadying breath and opened his eyes again, aware Aragorn's attention was fixed on him, awaiting answers.

"How...?" Aragorn looked down again at Boromir and Garad saw his right hand move from the Man's chest to grip his shoulder as if affirming the enemy would never have him while Aragorn breathed. Garad instinctively nodded approval – this Man, this King had a mighty heart befitting the friend it had won.

"We kept firing, shredded one of the beast's wings," Garad continued, "until it had enough and let go."

"It dropped him?" Aragorn's question was strained with alarm. He stared in shock from Boromir to Garad and back again, his grip tightening even harder on the shoulder.

"From a long way up," Garad said. "Lucky bastard fell into a stack of dead cave trolls."

Aragorn blinked and shook his head as if he could not have heard properly. Then he puffed a laughing breath, smiling a little as he lay a gentle left hand to Boromir's bruised and bloodied forehead. But he was deadly serious as he said, "Little wonder he suffers under the Shadow."

"What can we do?" Garad took a hobbling step closer. The room suddenly lurched about him, his head spinning dizzily. He only just managed to grab the chair-back and stop himself falling.

"You sit down," Liel ordered. "You're bleeding. Again."

"I am?" Garad instinctively lowered his chin to look at his foot and a wave of vertigo clutched hard at him.

Herion moved quickly to steady him and ease him down into the armchair. "Stay put!" he snapped. "I know your head is solid rock, and I don't need another dent in my floor."

Garad's head did hurt and he felt like he was going to throw up. Best to obey. He took a few deep breaths, wanting badly to clear his vision to see what was going on about Boromir.

Aragorn, about to enter Healer's trance, checked, looked from Gandalf to the baby. "I will continue to ward her," the wizard assured. "Only you can return Boromir now."

"Only, he?" Liel asked Gandalf, surprised, worried. Eyebrow raised, she turned to the ragged Man bent over her husband. "Who are you? Where did you come from?"

"The Dimholt," Aragorn said flatly. Liel gasped, disbelief or sudden understanding, Garad was unsure. Annoyed that his attention had been taken from his patient, Aragorn looked up at her. "And you are --?" he challenged.

In Faramir's absence it was up to Garad to defuse the tension, and too, this was an occasion that surely required the marking of some formality. He lurched up on his one good foot, a hand on the chair to stop himself falling. "May I introduce, Her Grace," he said hurriedly, "Princess Sovereign of ahh ahh –" The room turned in slow circles about him, he couldn't think.

"Osgiliath," Herion helped him out distractedly from where he had returned to his Rohirrim patient.

"Right. "Garad leaned more heavily against the chair and rubbed at his aching head, vaguely wondering if it hurt more than his foot. He had a feeling he had forgotten something important. Oh!. "And, umm, and Lady of Gondor, Boromir's wife."

That brought Aragorn's chin up sharply. Garad wondered if he had suddenly seen – or Sensed -- the shield at Liel's throat. Then the Man's head turned down to regard the child in her arms.

"Your Grace," Garad hurried on, "meet Aragorn, son of .." Dammit, he couldn't remember. " somebody or other from Arnor. Heir of Elendil."

Liel's brows rose almost to her hairline. She blinked at the unkempt, weary and filthy Man before her. She dipped her head in acknowledgment. "Gondor has waited long. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Tar-Eriador. My husband speaks highly of you, My Lord."

"There is no greater praise. I thank you, Your Grace." Aragorn's attention returned immediately to the unconscious Man.

"The Hands of the King…" Liel said in soft approval, watching Aragorn's lean fingers move over Boromir's face and chest.

"….bring healing." Faramir's voice, thankfully. "We were working together in the Shadow Ward." He told Liel. "He has saved many already this night."

Garad craned his painful neck and head to find Faramir standing in the doorway. Or rather he was braced, on his feet only because an Orderly had tight hold of an arm over his shoulder. He looked awful, his face green-grey, his eyes red-rimmed, his shoulders hunched.

"You should be resting," Gandalf said mildly. Garad swayed on his precarious one-legged stance, and the wizard kindly took him by the elbow and guided him to sit down again.

"Boromir?" Faramir asked, hobbling inside with assistance, the single word carrying a heavy burden of fear and worry.

"I will call him," Aragorn said. "You cannot come after us. You are too weak. I may need Gandalf's aid. If I send for him, you guard the baby."

"I understand." Faramir turned to Liel. "You should stand back, else it will drag you in, and Liramir still tries to reach him."

Reluctantly, she released her grip on Boromir's left hand. Briefly, she touched Faramir's tired face, then she came to stand close by Garad, just behind the chair, her free hand going to grip it instead.

In the next breath, Aragorn entered trance, standing at Boromir's side, one hand still resting on the Man's brow, the other holding Boromir's limp right hand. Aragorn's eyes closed, every line of his face tense, concentrating fiercely. Garad could feel the weariness in him and wondered anxiously if he would have the strength. He had done the impossible, marshaled an army none other could summon, travelled hard, far and fast, fought a battle, and already healed many tonight. Garad's chest tightened -- would the strain from that effort cost Boromir his life?

"He needs this." A small figure entered the room.

"Pippin," Liel greeted. "Athelas. Thank you. It must be steeped?"

"Yes."

"Hot water, on the stove," Herion said, continuing his work with the wounded Rohirrim.

Pippin hurried across the room, filled a bowl and crushed the fresh leaves into the steaming water. Garad blinked mild surprise as the fresh cleansing aroma filled his lungs and immediately the pain in his foot and his head eased. His vision was clearer as he watched Pippin carry the herbal infusion back to Aragorn and Boromir. The Hobbit lifted it and held it close.

Aragorn's chest expanded as he breathed deeply, and Garad saw strength return to his stance. And to his voice. It had been so faint before that Garad had not heard him calling, softly, continuously, "Boromir?" He saw the Man's grip tighten and his voice rang with power. "Return to us! _Return! Gondor calls!"_

A waiting tension answered, the silent anticipation of everyone in the room profound. The flesh on the back of Garad's neck prickled as if lightning were close.

Then, suddenly, Aragorn sagged and staggered back a pace, Pippin stepping to brace him. Faramir and Liel's expressions mirrored Garad's fear. Boromir remained unmoving, looked no different. Had he finally gone too far? The King himself unable to reach him?

The chair back creaked. Garad turned his head, flinched, saw Liel, white-faced, the baby cradled in one arm, the other hand white-knuckled where it gripped the chair. Garad reached up and covered her hand with his, giving as much reassurance as he was taking. Afraid to look, Garad turned again toward the table.

Dazed, half-way between healer's trance and waking, Aragorn stepped close once more, again took Boromir's hand. It appeared the first try had indeed failed. Garad seriously doubted he had the strength to do it again.

"Boromir?" Aragorn said.

Then, Garad heard it, a gasp of air. Boromir breathed steadily and began groaning a little. Garad felt Liel's hand twitch beneath his. She pulled free, took the two steps needed to bring her to Boromir's side.

"Crying…" Boromir mumbled. His eyes opened a crack.

"Safe," Aragorn said. "Faramir has her. Gandalf, too."

Boromir tried to sit up, to see her for himself.

"Don't move!" several voices snapped at once, Liel's the most commanding. Aragorn and Faramir took firm hold of him.

Again Aragorn lay a hand to Boromir's brow. " She sleeps."

"She knows you're back with us." Liel said. She picked up his left hand again and brought it to the child in her arms. "See, here's Dada." She kissed Boromir's cheek, said sternly, "Rest."

Boromir needed no further urging. His head slumped back, and he slept.

No one said anything for some long moments.

"How many times must he endure?" Liel asked grimly, tracing Boromir's jaw and cheek with her fingertips

"That was too close. I swear, he's making me old before my time!" Garad rubbed at his head, flinched, saw blood on his hand.

"Your head needs stitching," Liel said, smiling faintly as she looked up at him.

"More good news," Garad muttered.

"Hold the baby."

"What?"

Liel just shook her head, bent and placed the tiny swaddled child in his arms. Garad tried to pull back, afraid he'd do something wrong. Then, he was holding her, Faramir's niece, Boromir and Liel's child, Gondor's baby Princess. He looked over to where Aragorn and Gandalf had convinced Faramir to sit down. He had insisted on being close enough to take part in any further treatment to his brother.

"What did you do to yourself now?" Faramir asked, looking away for a moment from where he was watching Aragorn's examination of Boromir's gore-splattered form.

"Boromir fell on me."

"What, again?"

"Garad saved him from serious injury," Herion put in. "He almost fell into the fire."

"Thank you," Faramir said, very serious now, impossibly tired.

Reminded of the injury, Garad lifted a hand to rub at his head. Liel slapped it away. Then much to his surprise, she stooped and kissed his cheek. He felt himself blush and hid his expression a little by snuggling the baby closer to him. Liel drew the basket with its needles and thread to her. Garad sighed. "Twice in one night."

"Below your average, according to Elena," Liel said primly.

"She would," Pippin agreed, holding athelas swabs for Aragorn. "Will we take him to the Shadow ward?"

"No, my rooms by the Houses of Healing," Liel said. "Where I can keep on eye on him. We'll move Merry there, too." She swept her gaze to everyone gathered in the room. "You all sleep there tonight."

Of course, Garad thought. Can't take him all the way to home on the seventh level. She'll be needed down here for long days yet.

Aragorn lifted his head in mild surprise.

"We'd have to tie Boromir down otherwise," Faramir explained. "If he can't see us all when he wakes, he goes looking."

"With his trousers or without," Garad put in. "Ow." Liel missed her stitch.

"Oh." Aragorn nodded. He had finally stripped Boromir completely, revealing a mass of deep bruises and red splotches where the new ones were coming up. Recently healed wounds added to the colour array. His clothing and chain mail was mounded on the floor, caked in the blood and gore of both the enemy he had battled and the wounded he'd been helping to rescue. Wondering again at how Boromir had kept going so long, Garad remembered not to shake his head.

"You're having a party and you didn't invite me?"

"Elena!" Garad started up and was pushed back down. He'd been waiting all night for her to get off duty so they could have time alone. And he could get his wounds looked after properly… And now they had a crowd. Dammit!

"_You're_ holding the baby?" she teased, coming closer. "Captain Clumsy?"

"That would be him," Garad nodded toward Boromir and winced as a stitch pulled.

"Hold still, will you?" Liel scolded.

Elena, pivoting, was alarmed as she took in exactly who it was Aragorn was tending. "I didn't know Boromir had been hurt. Will he be all right? How bad?"

"Not wounded," Faramir answered. "The Shadow."

"The Nazgul! Of course! I should have thought."

"Join the line on that one," Garad said glumly.

"He was advised, strongly, to stay put under observation," Herion said tersely, his hands busy wrapping bandaging about the semi-conscious Rider.

"That's right," Garad agreed, "I'd forgotten, you all but threatened to tie him down."

Liel sighed heavily. "It's Boromir. " She gave a thin smile to all gathered, "And I didn't have any rope, either."

"He will be all right?"

"I'll find the rope," Liel promised.

"Next time, don't leave it in the bedroom," Elena advised with a sly smile. Remembering Elena and her 'ropes', Garad snorted and got a pinch for his trouble.

"He will rest," Faramir growled, too tired to note the by-play. "I will see to it."

It was plain he was blaming himself more than any other present. Garad thought of reminding him that he had been deeply involved with saving Merry at the time, but thought better of it.

"It's a wonder you're awake at all," Gandalf put in. "Your link with your brother could not work while I held you asleep."

"Thank you," Faramir snapped, giving the Wizard a filthy glare, "I do not recall asking for your assistance."

Gandalf returned the volley. "It was either that or watch you fall on your face."

"There you go, then, Faramir," Elena dared, breaking the impasse. "That explains why you look like something the cat dragged in. You and Boromir, two of a kind." Avoiding Faramir's expected retaliation, she added smoothly, "Your niece is something special. Aren't you, my love?" She tickled the baby's chin and Liramir's hand, appearing where the swaddling had come loose, reached up and closed two tiny fingers about Elena's forefinger. Elena gasped delight. "She's certainly like her uncle. Look at that! The grip of a bow-woman, already."

Garad snorted.

"She does," Faramir agreed, a smile easing his strained face.

Garad relaxed, trying to shift his throbbing foot a little, then flinching.

"What have you done to yourself now?" Elena asked, standing smiling with fond concern down at him.

Garad sighed, wondering how many times he was going to have to say it. "Boromir fell on me."

"Again? I keep telling you, he's too big. You need to get out of the way."

"He was standing in front of the fire."

He had the satisfaction of seeing her eyebrows climb. "Oh, well, then, I forgive you this once," she said. "You look like you need a bed and lots and lots of loving care. Fortunately, for you, I have both."

"I've heard kisses work wonders." Garad suggested with a grin. Liel poked him, thankfully with a finger rather than the needle..

"We'll do the old and the new scars," Elena offered happily.

Garad sighed again, contentedly this time. "As soon as I'm done here."

"Your head needs bandaging," Elena commented, studying the stitches critically. "And your foot already is." She winked. "I have a lot of territory to cover. Now, " she said. "Best give me the baby."

"Why?" Garad said, suddenly realising he didn't want to. "I just got her."

"Because I said so. And I'm going to sit on your lap, so she's not going far."

"Oh." That was much more appealing. Elena waited for a signal from Liel that the stitching was done. She bent and took the baby in her arms, then, as promised, sat down so Garad could cuddle them both.

Half-waking, hurting and sore from head to toe, Boromir instinctively sought a more comfortable position. But, as he rolled partway to his left side, the pain worsened bringing him fully awake with a gasp and a moan.

There was a clink as of a plate or mug being set down somewhere close by.

"Best to stay still a while yet," he heard Aragorn say.

Boromir lay back and squinted blearily up at him. "Aragorn? Where…?"

Then he realised he was lying in a familiar four poster bed, hung with midnight blue drapes. He was in the rooms he shared with his wife in the Houses of Healing.

"Your Lady's rooms," Aragorn informed him, unaware he had already identified it.

"How are you feeling?" That was Pippin, irritatingly cheerful. His head popped up beside the bed, only just visible. As he took in Pippin's relieved and eagerly welcoming expression he forgot the stab of pain that the overly loud, bright tone had caused.

"Pippin? You're all right?" Then, as memory returned more fully, "Where's Merry?"

"In bed, right there, see. He's fine."

Boromir craned to see, his bruised body protesting at the movement. Aragorn came to his assistance with an arm around his shoulders, while he used his other hand to stuff pillows behind Boromir's painful back. Pippin lent his usual cheerful assistance, and only a few moments later, he could see Merry was watching the fuss, a smile on his face as he chewed an apple. A comforting sight, that, for all his face was distressingly white. The cut on his brow had been bandaged, a bruise showing under its edges.

"It's all right," Aragorn told him. "All are safe." He paused, and one corner of his mouth twitched. "We've won. I'm the only Orc bastard left breathing anywhere near Minas Tirith."

Boromir blinked at him, his mouth trying to form words his mind refused to provide.

The twitch burst into a grin and Pippin and Merry laughed.

"Ha ha," Boromir finally managed to say, fighting his own grin, then gave into it. All must indeed be well if Aragorn was making jokes.

"We were asking about you," Pippin reminded, poking his arm.

"I'm hungry," Boromir said.

"That's good, right?" Pippin looked to Aragorn who gave him a distracted nod and smile as he worked to keep Boromir from moving about too much.

"And I need to piss," Boromir added.

Aragorn snorted. Pippin said, sagely, "Piss first, eat second, but don't forget to wash your hands."

"Thank you, mother," Boromir grumbled. Aragorn's snort became a fully fledged chuckle. Boromir threw back the sheets, swung his legs to the side. He had to bite down against the flare of pain in his back, then suppress a groan as he propped himself up, ready to put his feet to the floor.

That floor seemed a very long way off, especially for someone used to sleeping on the ground of late. He was unexpectedly dizzy, his head swimming with his weakness. Oh right, he hadn't eaten in a while.

"Stay there," Aragorn said, bracing him. "I'll get the – "

"No! I can walk. I'm neither bleeding nor broken."

He lurched from the bed, staggered and had to grab the bed post. The room spun slowly about him. When the dizziness settled, he realised Aragorn was giving him the annoyed mother hen look. He had seen that exact same look on Faramir' s face more times than he wanted to recall.

Aragorn cleared his throat and eyed him expectantly. Wonderful. Now he was acting like Faramir, too.

Boromir surrendered to necessity, at least partly. "Your arm, if you would, Oh My King?"

Aragorn smiled smugly but moved with blessed haste to support him with a shoulder under his arm. Boromir knew where to go, and took a hobbling pace, then changed his mind. He veered aside to go to Merry who was smiling broadly at him.

"I am pleased to see you recovering, my Shield-brother," Boromir squeezed his arm.

"Likewise." Merry smiled. "About time you woke up."

"You and Gimli were having a snoring competition before he and Gandalf and Legolas went to breakfast," Pippin said.

Aragorn helped him forward and again Boromir paused, seeing Faramir asleep in bed on the other side of the common area. He smiled down at him, then frowned. He seemed unnaturally pale, very deeply asleep.

"He's not hurt," Aragorn explained. "Gandalf spelled him to sleep. Again. He Called too many back from the Shadow while yet to fully heal himself."

"Oh." Boromir decided more questions would wait, or he'd embarrass himself. He stumbled onward, glad of Aragorn's support. He was so stiff and sore he could barely move. "What hit me?"

"It's not what hit you, it's what dropped you."

His brush with the Nazgul returned to him in a rush. No wonder he hurt.

The door opened, letting in a gust of cold air. Boromir looked back, saw a hobbling Garad entering, cheerful and self-satisfied as he enjoyed Elena's assisting arm wrapped about him. There was a bandage about his head. That hadn't been there before, Boromir was sure.

"What have you done to yourself this time?" he asked.

"You," Garad said concisely, making Elena snort amusement. "Where are you off to?"

"Guess." Boromir decided to leave the riddle of the 'you' for the moment.

"Try not to fall in, Oh My Captain!" Garad advised, pulling Elena a little closer in his 'feebleness'.

Boromir sighed. The privacy of the bathroom was looking better by the moment.

"I'll go tell, Liel. I mean, Her Grace," Pippin said, moving away from Merry's bedside and taking an apple from the basket on the small table there.

"That I'm off to piss?" Boromir teased.

Pippin shook his head. "She wanted to know as soon as you woke." Realising he was late, Pippin's expression became mild panic. "I should have left already."

"Relax, Pippin," Boromir said with a wolfish grin. "She only bites me."

That earned him a collective hoot from all but Aragorn who merely snorted.

"Where's Liramir?"

"With Beth," Elena said. "Good luck on prizing her away from her."

"We tried and we were scolded away for our troubles," Garad said, looking comically mournful.

"She was sleeping," Elena said. "Very pretty. Congratulations. You two do good work."

"Thanks." Boromir gave a half bow despite his aching bladder. He felt himself beaming like a fool.

With Elena's care, Garad gingerly lowered himself into the armchair by the blazing hearth. She lifted his bandaged foot onto a cushioned rest and gave it a kiss. He grinned happily up at her, then produced a meat pie from inside the basket Elena had carried over her arm. That was no doubt a token consolation from Beth.

Boromir smiled, watching them. They really should get married, he thought. They'd put it off too long already. And Liramir would need playmates of her own age rather than all these grownups doting on her. He smiled again, aware Aragorn was watching him with a strange expression. It reminded him of the way Gandalf looked at Faramir when his brother was being exceptionally clever.

"So you're just going to sit there all day?" Boromir asked Garad.

"I've been assigned guard duty." Garad gave him a cheeky salute with the pie. "On you."

Boromir snorted, and took another hobbling step. "What, you're going to fall on the enemy to defend me?"

"Nope. That's your specialty, falling from a great height to finish trolls that are already dead. I'm a novice, but I can learn from the expert."  
"No. You. Will. Not." Elena said very firmly.

Laughing, Boromir left Garad to his scolding, and with Aragorn's patient help, Boromir finally gained the sanctuary of the privy, pulling himself together enough to insist he wasn't so feeble he needed help with that.

When he was done, he found Aragorn waiting to help him back to his bed. To his chagrin, he found himself astonishingly grateful to sink back down onto its mattress, though he refused to do more than sit on its edge.

Looking up at Aragorn with a smile of thanks, he found the other Man stood frowning thoughtfully at those in the room. As cheerful laughter and happy, teasing talk rose about them, Aragorn seemed to fade back toward the hall that led to the privy, his gaze going to his muddy boots. It was the only thing about him that was muddy, Boromir suddenly noticed with surprise. Everything else was clean and crisp. Even his hair shone, and he noted with approval that he had pulled his hair back from hiding his face.

"What?" Aragorn said, turning back to him.

"I've never seen you so clean," he said, grinning.

"Yes, you have."

Boromir thought about it. "Imladris. Huh, that seems so long ago now. And we've all changed so much." He eyed Aragorn meaningfully. "Especially you."

Aragorn simply nodded. "You didn't tell me you had a wife and child."

"I didn't know about the child, and while Her Grace was my wife by common law, Denethor would not recognize me as her Consort."

"I see. That has changed now, of course." Aragorn's gaze fell again, and he seemed to shrink even more into the shadows of the corner.

Boromir smiled. "Indeed it has," he replied, holding his hand out to Aragorn for assistance. "I would see my brother."

Aragorn could not deny him that, and so was forced to abandon his trick of disappearing to help him to his feet and across the room to his brother's bed.

It too was a four poster, set into a semi-private alcove in the right hand corner of the large room. Boromir was painfully reminded of the many times either he or Faramir had been badly wounded and spent many a long week recuperating here. Whenever possible, the one would stay here with the other, but too many times battle or other duty pulled them away, to worry until word came to confirm what their hearts told them about the well-being of the other.

"He will be well," Aragorn said, as if reading his thoughts.

Boromir sat down on the edge of the bed, wincing as his aching backside sank into its blessed cushioning.

"How long have we been asleep? What hour of day is it?"

"Mid-afternoon."

Boromir grunted wordless reply, worried as he studied his brother's bruised and thin face. Where bruises did not darken his flesh, he looked to Boromir's eye as white as the pillows that cushioned his head. He reached out, ignoring the protest of sore muscles, and pulled the blanket a little higher about Faramir's chest, tucked in the edges.

Trusting in the strength of Gandalf's spell, he dared to touch a gentle hand to his brother's arm where it lay above the covers. Normally, his very presence would wake Faramir, but his eyelids didn't even flicker.

"He never sleeps like this," Boromir murmured.

"Gandalf knows what he's doing. Faramir will be the better for it. He pushed himself hard to be able to fight yesterday after his ordeal, let alone heal others afterward." Aragorn sighed heavily. "I should have stopped him."

Boromir shook his head. "Good luck on that."

"He wrenched himself from Gandalf's first sleep spell to come to your aid last night."

"No wonder he sleeps like the dead."

Pippin returned and came quietly to their side. "I don't know how he managed through you and Gimli snoring," he commented softly.

"Years of practice, I'd say," Merry put in.

"What are you doing out of bed?" Boromir demanded.

Merry gave him an exasperated regard. "The same as you." He stood looking up at him and leaning a little on Pippin's supporting shoulder. Boromir was used to seeing him ruddy-cheeked and full of mischief. Now he was as pale and unwell as Faramir.

"Pippin could have brought you the – "

"Oh, no," Merry said. Dropping his voice in a dead-on imitation of Boromir, he said, "I'm neither bleeding nor broken."

Boromir inclined his head in acknowledgment of the score.  
"Except your wounded head and your wounded arm," Pippin pointed out, which was as well, for if Boromir had tried it, Merry would certainly have accused him of being a pot calling the kettle black.

"Not to mention getting over the Black Breath and – " Pippin continued.

Merry poked his cousin in the ribs. "I'm fine. How's Faramir?"

"He will soon wake." That was Gandalf. Boromir had not heard him enter. He must have come in behind the Hobbits. "At least he has the intelligence to sleep now he has the chance." He eyed Boromir and Merry pointedly.

"Where are Gimli and Legolas?" Boromir changed the subject quickly. He stood, pleased he had managed without help, and moved toward the long wooden dining table and its high-backed cushioned chairs. He had seen more food baskets there, he thought, on the end of the table closest to the hearth.

"They're with the city engineers, inspecting the walls, and helping with the clean up," Gandalf said. He did not follow but headed for his own small room. "Lots of dead Orcs out there in the sun."

Boromir's stomach did a flip-flop. He needed to eat. The main door opened again and Liel entered. Boromir suddenly felt much better and he smiled at her. Aragorn, who had been hovering in case he needed steadying, stepped back.

"Have you two been introduced?" Boromir asked, turning back to his Cousin even as he held his hand out to his wife. Aragorn would have to try harder than that to get away from them, for he had spent years stopping Faramir from ghosting away from company. Compared to his brother, Aragorn was a rank amateur at making himself scarce.

"Yes. By Garad." Aragorn smiled wryly. "I'm Aragorn, Son of Someone Or Other from Arnor."

Boromir briefly covered his face with his hand. "Wonderful."

"I like it."

Overhearing, Liel explained, "He was concussed."

"He was?" Boromir asked. "How badly was he hurt?!"

"You fell on him," she told him gently.

Boromir winced. "Again?"

"He stopped you falling into the fire," Liel added.

"I nearly – ? Seems I had a busy day yesterday…."

Liel stepped closer to Boromir, wrapping her arms about his chest, and kissed him. "It's good to see you looking better. How do you feel?"

"Better than Garad must be." He drew her into his arms, annoyed with himself as he stumbled a little. "You must be tired. How long have you been working?"

She waved her hand in mitigating answer but despite her best efforts she yawned. Boromir gave her a pointed look.

"You're the one who needs to sit down," she said, ignoring him. "I must go get Liramir. Time for feeding." She poked him gently in the stomach. "I'll bring something for you."

"I'll have what she's having," Boromir whispered. He nibbled at her throat and moved a hand toward her breast.

She grabbed his hand and pushed it down. "Wait your turn. And behave, you shock our King." She shook a finger at him but was smiling as she left the room.

Grinning, Boromir turned back to Aragorn. The other Man looking alone, obviously feeling the odd one out. Well, he knew how to deal with that easily enough.

"I am sorry," Boromir sighed, lowered his gaze, rubbed one hand over the other. "I didn't mean it to be like this…."

"What?" Aragorn demanded, startled

There, that had gotten his attention.

"It…. This, is not the way I imagined introducing you to my… our city, our people… our family."

Aragorn smiled faintly. "I believe there were to be silver trumpets?"

Boromir was glad of that smile. "That can still be arranged." He waved a hand, indicating Garad, Elena, and by implication, Liel and everyone else Aragorn had yet to get to know. "Think of it as a new, larger – more bawdy – Fellowship."

Aragorn's eyebrows climbed. He nodded slowly. "I will." He squeezed Boromir's arm in quick gratitude. "You and your brother have made such a difference. This is a another city entirely to that I found when I first came here to serve your grandfather. There is much more … welcome, more heart."

"Good," Boromir said, suddenly embarrassed. "Now, we eat. Come, sit with me. If I know Beth she will soon arrive with fresh supplies and lots of hot pies."

"I'm not particularly hungry," Aragorn said, side-stepping the invitation to join the throng at the table. "Beth has been plying us all with food all morning."

"She's a wonderful help." Boromir looked around the room thoughtfully. "I should send for Eomer. We need to talk tactics. While we enjoy home comforts Frodo and Sam are still out there somewhere, alone in Mordor."

"Indeed so," Aragorn said softly. "I have been thinking the same thing. We must give them whatever aid we might, even from afar."

Boromir nodded, met his eyes, knew they were in agreement. "We distract Sauron."

"Yes. He must believe there is a good chance Pippin carries the Ring."

Boromir sighed heavily, flinched as his ribs hurt, rubbed at them. "Best we invite Rohan to take council. He will want to ride out with us, if I know him."

"He is with his sister in the other wing of the Houses."

"How is she?"

"Awake. Weak. Recovering."

"Could she be moved here?"

Aragorn considered quickly, scanning the room. "Does that bed over there belong to anyone in particular?"  
"I don't know. Elena?" Boromir called.

"My Lord?" She ruffled Garad's hair, stood and came to the table.

"I'm wondering if we might have the Lady Eowyn stay here with us. It would be less tiring for her than coming back and forth whenever we call a meeting. And I for one, do not scorn her advice. Knowing her, she would not want to miss anything, no matter her wounds. "

"Sounds familiar," Elena said under her breath, making Aragorn snort. "That last room by the far corner is empty. It is far enough back to be private. I can have the screens erected fully about it."

"Thank you. Of course, all will depend on her acceptance. But at least now we can ask."

"Consider it done." Elena turned about and left the room, waving a kiss to Garad.

Boromir shook his head and smiled at the pair. "Those two need a wedding," he said, turning back. Before Aragorn could hide it, Boromir caught that same lonely expression in his eyes. Yielding to the demands of his leg, and a new need for a little more privacy, Boromir went back to sit on the edge of his bed again, drawing Aragorn along with him.

"Speaking of weddings, Aragorn…. You still wear the Evenstar?"

Boromir asked the question as gently as he could. Arwen would have long since gone to the Grey Havens, long since begun her journey to the West, if that had been her final choice. Aragorn had not spoken of it, and he had not thought to ask, or even to wonder what had happened between them. Now, looking at the guarded expression of his friend, he felt like kicking himself.

"Eowyn will need much company when she returns to herself," Aragorn said, breaking the awkward silence and avoiding the question. "She suffered… great loneliness. I… don't think I helped."

Boromir winced. He could just imagine how….

"Did she make vile, evil tasting stew for you?"

"How did you know?"

"It's a test. You didn't eat it, did you?"

Aragorn scrubbed a hand over his face. "I thought to be polite, she could see…. I spoke of Arwen. I wore the Evenstar…. She's a child, Boromir!"

"Tell that to the Witch King," Boromir said concisely.

"Indeed," Aragorn agreed. "But.."

"And she's no child to the people of Rohan," Boromir continued.. Unfortunately that is also true of one who lives in Edoras and walks on two legs and names himself Man, but who is not."

"Grima Wormtongue?" Aragorn guessed. Boromir nodded and, curious, Aragorn cocked an eyebrow by way of invitation to continue what was obviously a story in the offing.

Boromir obliged. "When I arrived in Edoras on my way to Imladris, Theodred and Eomer were still on patrol. Grima the Worm was unaware I had arrived. I caught him slavering all over Eowyn and threatening to work against her cousin and her brother in the King's eyes if she objected." Boromir picked up a bread roll and took a savage bite. "Until I hit him, that is. I broke his arm. And his balls." He ate some more. "Accidentally, of course. I'm clumsy like that, just ask Garad."

"Of course." Aragorn shared a grim smile. "As soon as Gandalf freed Theoden he threw the bastard out of the Hall and down the stairs."

"I wish I had seen that." Boromir paused, imagining the scene. "I wish I had done that." He considered Aragorn's predicament, hesitated, then steamed on. "Aragorn, about Arwen…."

Aragorn looked away, shaking his head. "I don't know," he finally said, his voice very, very quiet. "I do not care to know…. Not until…."

Not until the job was done or he was dead, Boromir finished to himself. Well enough, he would let it lie until then, and drop the word in Liel's ear about the Evenstar. She would keep the Women of the Court at bay, for as long as necessary.


	23. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Aragorn hastily stepped back as the campfire, whipped by a sudden cold wind, leapt higher. Tongues of flame licked at the Ithilien night sky with a hungry roar as if seeking to devour the starlight. It was unsettling, adding to the general feeling of unease that had settled about the Men as the camp had been made just before sunset. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow, he could almost hear the word repeating in their anxious thoughts. Tomorrow they would stand before the very Black Gates of Mordor and challenge Sauron himself to battle.

"Thank you. That's right, just there."

Faramir's voice. Aragorn turned to see the Ranger Captain had ordered one of the supply wagons placed so it would offer most protection from the marauding wind. They had debated about bringing wagons at all, then realised that there was no need for great speed, -- Sauron's forces might choose to attack anywhere; the object was to draw his attention, not win a race. And secondly, they may need all the wagons they could find should they survive the encounter and need them for the wounded. This wagon carried some of the Ent water. The giant Tree Shepherds had not stayed long, in fact, had left within moments of delivering their precious cargo and greeting their friends. They had, understandably, found the crowding and noise of the city, -- not to mention all the wooden structures – too much for them.

Aragorn sighed heavily. He had tried hard not to fall into the same trap that was dampening the spirits of all about him, depleting their reserves of determination and courage. But here he was too, imagining the carnage of a battle they could not hope to win. It was, simply, something that must be done. Frodo and Sam still kept the quest alive, that much was certain, for they would surely know had it been otherwise.

"Sit," Gandalf said tersely. "There are enough Men prowling about."

Aragorn nodded and obeyed, glad when Faramir joined the group, rather than going to the next fire in line about which sat Imrahil and Eomer. Aragorn's adopted kin, Elrond and his sons, and also Celeborn, Glorfindel and Thranduil tended another campfire still further down the slope. Aragorn had shrugged and told them he felt the need to be with his sworn companions on the trail once more. It would be good to erase the last shadow of grief, the hollow place that had been torn through their hearts after Moria. Gandalf was back. Aragorn smiled, eased by the thought. Gandalf and the Hobbits, Boromir, Legolas and Gimli not far off. It was almost as if the Fellowship was whole again. They need only bring Frodo and Sam safely back into the fold.

That grim thought returned Aragorn's edgy mood and he fought the urge to get up and move again, go to Boromir who was again doing his customary check about the perimeter of camp. The sudden realisation came to him, that with Garad and Faramir part of their group, they were again, Nine. That gave him comfort.

"Here," Merry said, offering a steaming plate of hot food. "Try this. Much better than Lembas bread." He lowered his head furtively looking around. "Don't tell the Elves I said so."

Aragorn snorted. "I won't. And don't worry he's nowhere in hearing. He and Gimli have gone ahead a ways to check the lie of the land. "

"Garad is with them," Faramir put in, accepting the plate of hot beef and mushroom stew and potatoes that Pippin handed over.

"I wish Sam and Frodo were here," Pippin couldn't help but say.

"Me, too," Merry agreed glumly. "Who knows what they're eating right now."

"Probably nothing," Pippin said, eyeing his food as if too guilty to eat it.

"They should still have plenty of the dried meat and apples we gave them," Faramir said.

"I'm glad they met you," Merry said.

Faramir nodded and went back to poking at his food and his brooding contemplation of the looming shadow that was his brother, stalking about, occasionally whispering to the sentries.

"He should eat while it's hot," Pippin pointed out.

Gandalf nodded and took the pipe from his mouth to blow a large circular smoke ring. That would have had Boromir threatening to debeard the Wizard but for the unaccustomed fact that on this march the idea was to be noticed rather than to hide. "He seems on edge. Is he always like this before battle?"

"No." Faramir said, shortly.

"He's like a great bear, lumbering about in the dark, looking for its cubs," Merry decided.

"No," Pippin corrected airily, his chin lifted, "That would be the Baby Oliphaunt!"  
Merry laughed and Aragorn snorted. The two Hobbits were never going to let Boromir forget that they had overheard Beth's childhood nickname for him.

Gandalf eyed Aragorn so intently that he asked, "What?"

"Therein lies our strength. We will yet know victory. Mark my words. The enemy is far more uneasy tonight than our army."

"How so?" Aragorn demanded and took a mouthful of hot food.

"We are together. We are bonded by something far greater than Sauron could ever imagine. Love."

Aragorn blinked. He had never heard Gandalf speak in such terms before. But he was right. Aragorn thought back to his brief time in Minas Tirith, in Boromir and Faramir's home. It was no longer just a beautiful but cold White City, the splendor of all Eriador. It had become Home. Aragorn nodded and met Gandalf's eyes with understanding and thanks. As a Dunedain Ranger guarding the borders of the Shire, Aragorn had often envied the Hobbits their peaceful lives, their buoyant happiness and child-like innocence. But more, he had envied them their families and their warm, loving homes. Minas Tirith might not have the innocence and the peace, but it did now have the strong sense of unity, of home. There waited Arwen, Liel, Liramir, Elena, Eowyn…. There waited love. And love was the strength of Gondor's sword arms, her true Shield Wall.

"Aragorn?" Pippin asked. "How will we know? I mean, how will we know when, if…"

"If we've really helped Frodo and Sam?" Merry finished his cousin's clumsy question.

"Boromir will know," Faramir said quietly. "Watch him."

"Hmm," Gandalf grunted and puffed another circle of smoke. "It reaches out to him again."

"It? The Ring?" Pippin yelped.

"It's power mounts so close to Its Master. It is smug, It senses victory."

"No wonder Boromir can't sit still."

"It does not speak to him in words," Faramir said. "It is too distant, too … preoccupied with Frodo."

"You feel It, too?" Gandalf sounded mildly surprised.

"I feel what Boromir feels, or at least an echo of it." He put down his plate and stood. "He must eat." He left the circle of firelight, heading for the sound of breaking twigs and crushed leaves where his brother continued his aimless wandering.

"If he can feel the Ring…" Aragorn felt a strange hope grow in his heart. "Can he also feel Frodo's mind?"

"I had not thought of that. I should have thought of that," Gandalf grunted in self-admonishment.

"Frodo cannot hold much longer," a grim voice said from the dark. Boromir stepped clear of the shadows, shaking his head, speaking to Faramir who was close at his side. "There is… impossible weariness."

"Sit. Eat," Faramir said firmly and took his brother's arm to guide him down. "Frodo's state affects you through the Ring."

Boromir, seated at last, nodded tired agreement and scrubbed at his face. "I do not doubt that Frodo will reach Mount Doom. But …." His words trailed off into a heaving sigh.

Gandalf puffed more smoke. "Sam's stout heart must carry Frodo forward."

"It will not be enough." Boromir rubbed again at his forehead, then lowered his head into his hands, avoiding looking at anyone. "At the last, Frodo must stand alone."

"I had but a small taste of the Ring's foul voice," Faramir said. "I do not know how he can bear it."

Boromir's head came up sharply, his green eyes bright with pain and anger. "He should not have been made to bear it!"

"It was his to do, and his alone," Gandalf said quietly.

"Well, it's wrong!" Boromir snarled. "It is not right! Not two alone!"

There followed a profound grim silence. Aragorn knew, they all knew, Boromir spoke true, spoke their hearts' knowing. Frodo and Sam should not have had to do this alone. Never alone.

"But, they are not alone," Faramir said, murmuring so quietly that the hungry crackle of the fire almost stole away the words.

"They are!" Pippin cried, his voice breaking to a sob.

Merry put an arm about his cousin's shoulders. "We should have been with them."

"One of us _is_ with them," Faramir continued, his voice ringing now, carrying above the fire and the wind. He turned his head and his blue eyes shone red-gold, reflecting the firelight as he looked at his brother. "Boromir is with them."

Aragorn gasped. Of course, the pieces fit, made perfect strategy. It would need great care and was risky. But such was the way of war.

Gandalf lowered his pipe from his mouth so abruptly that he almost dropped it. Then he began chuckling to himself, absolutely delighted. "Faramir! I have often said it over the years, but never has it been so true … you are a wonder, gifted beyond measure."

"Whatever you have in mind for him, forget it!" Boromir snapped. "My brother will not be bait in your trap!"

"Neither Faramir nor I speak of bait and traps," Gandalf said mildly, eyeing Boromir gravely. "We speak of a mighty weapon. "

"Weapon?" Pippin asked. "What has that to do with Faramir?"

"Not him. Boromir," Gandalf answered.

"Me?" Slowly, Boromir began to smile, nodding understanding. "Well, that's all right then."

"It is not to be taken lightly," Gandalf warned.

"It is not to be done at all without help and guidance," Faramir said firmly, leaning forward to warm his hands over the flames and at the same time eye his brother with stern caution.

"If someone doesn't tell us exactly what 's going on," Pippin said, Merry, as ever finishing, "And right now." He looked to his cousin who nodded, "We'll take you down, like we did that day before Caradhras."

"Not that! Please, not that!" Boromir's grim mood seemed completely gone as he flashed a grin at the two Hobbits.

"What?" Faramir frowned.

"Bring you down with a kick in the shins, then wrestle and tickle unmercifully," Aragorn explained, trading a smile with Boromir. That was a memory that often warmed his heart: Boromir, Merry and Pippin, wrestling and laughing like drunks, Frodo and Sam watching, Sam shaking his head and Frodo smiling at the pranksters.

"Saved by the crebain!" Aragorn met Boromir's eyes and shared a laugh.

"Saved by crebain?" Faramir's brows rose with avid curiosity.

"Back to the point," Gandalf put in tersely. "Faramir is right. Boromir _is_ with Frodo, linked to him by the Ring. And –" he jabbed with the stem of his pipe, "if that link can be made to work in reverse…"

"We can feed Frodo our combined strength," Aragorn explained for the Hobbits whose expressions showed sudden dawning revelation.

"We can help Frodo?" Merry asked, warily eager, Pippin adding, "We can push the Ring from his mind?"

"So I hope," Gandalf nodded, his enthusiasm fading as he frowned at Boromir who appeared more than ready for the task. "But it could be very dangerous, so close to Baradûr."

"If Sauron gets wind of it …" Faramir warned. "Dangerous for Boromir."

"We only use it in utmost need," Aragorn concluded. He leaned to one side and gripped Boromir's shoulder. "You have learned how to block the Ring's influence better than any of us here. Could you manage while picking up on Frodo's progress and Sending aid to him if need be?"

Boromir shrugged. "I can try."

"When Frodo enters the Mountain, we can hope the Ring will be busy with other things," Gandalf murmured.

"You will need food and rest tonight," Aragorn told Boromir firmly. "No more scouting the perimeter."

"Just what I need," Boromir gave his friend a wry smile, "another mother hen."

"Be careful, brother," Faramir urged. "Where you go, I go. In Link I will know if you push too far into risk."

"But… You didn't have long enough… You haven't learned how to… The Ring could…" Boromir protested.

"I know as much about the Ring's cunning as you understand the Borderlands!" Faramir threw back at him. Again his head came up, his jaw set with dogged determination – and worry. "And only from the Borderlands can we Shield you as you hold to Frodo's mind."

"We?" Boromir asked.

"This will need as much strength as we can muster, and more," Aragorn answered. "Faramir will be the hub of the wheel, and anyone else who has the ability will add the spokes, reinforcing the power."

"I will speak with Elrond and Celeborn," Gandalf put in. "Between us we have three Rings of power of our own. It is time we used them

Any further protest from Boromir died before his brother's fierce stubbornness and his friends' gathered will and intelligence. Boromir sighed, smiled and clasped Faramir's forearm in a gesture Aragorn was sure they had used many times before. "Together.

"Together," Faramir agreed, placing his free hand over his brother's and exhaling in relief.

"High time we took the offensive," Boromir growled.

"We have three Rings?" Pippin asked, puzzled.

"I have one, Elrond has one, and Galadriel gave Nenya to Celeborn," Gandalf said concisely.

"She did?" Merry's eyebrows rose and he gave a little whistle. "That's some gift."

"Indeed," Aragorn murmured. "The Lady has left for the West, but did not want to abandon us entirely."

"Well, that's good!" Merry said happily and fished in the supply basket leaning against the wagon wheels. He found an apple and settled back to munch happily.. Aragorn had to smile at his confidence for the battle ahead, and found that confidence somehow relaying to him, too.

"How far off do you think Frodo is?" Pippin asked.

"Close. Very close." Boromir's eagerness faded to fatigue and he scrubbed at his face again. He cupped his hand over his mouth as if to shelter it from foul air. "He struggles for air. There is great heat, and. poisonous fumes. They begin their climb up the mountain."

Pippin and Merry exchanged grim regards.

"You see more than I hoped," Gandalf said, pleased.'

Boromir sighed again. "More than I might wish."

"Eat," Faramir repeated firmly. "Not another word until you have taken some food."

Boromir flicked his hand over Faramir's already wind-rifled hair. "I will if you will."

Faramir returned the smile and holding up a heavily laden spoon fed himself a large piece of beef and mushroom stew. Boromir copied him and they set to with a will, downing the food like two hungry wolves.

"Look at that!" Merry said with a chuckle.

"They can eat like Hobbits when they put their minds to it," Pippin laughed.

"Who's eating like Hobbits?" Garad asked, appearing out of the darkness. "Oh, no, not those two. Quick, my small friends, save some for me."

That provoked more laughter and caused Boromir to choke a little as he turned to greet his friend, and at the same time, pretended to try to hide the last plate of stew.

"Where are Gimli and Legolas?" Merry asked.

"Talking with Celeborn and the others. They'll be over soon. Lucky thing they're eating the food there, the way some people are gulping down all we have here."

Faramir snorted and handed a laden plate to Garad who took a place on the ground beside him, Pippin and Merry scooting to one side to make room.

Garad watched as Faramir and Boromir continued eating faster than he had apparently ever seen them do before. "What's with the stew eating competition?" he asked. "Can anyone join in?"

"Indeed. All must," Gandalf said in typically cryptic fashion, chewing on his pipe thoughtfully.

"Huh?"

"He means you should eat so you can help Frodo tomorrow, too," Pippin explained.

"Me? What?" Garad spat out a piece of mushroom.

Faramir swallowed a huge bite and said, "We're going to win."

"Well. of course we're going to win!" Garad said, then spoiled his apparent confidence by asking, "How?"

Boromir snorted. "We have a plan."

Garad groaned. "Not that. Anything but that. Valar help us. He has a plan."

"Calm down. It's not my plan, it's Gandalf's."

Garad raised his hands in supplication. 'I thank thee, Valar, for thy prompt aid."

Boromir threw a piece of bread at him.

"My horse is grateful for the frequent supply of bread," Garad said with a smirk, pocketing the treat. "So, what's the plan, then?"

"Umm," Boromir said. "I'm not sure I know exactly how it works."

Garad rolled his eyes. "Sounds about right."

"It works," Faramir corrected firmly, "by my brother just doing what comes naturally."

"But Liel isn't here!" Garad quipped and it was Faramir's turn to throw bread at him. Aragorn enjoyed the show as Pippin and Merry shrugged at one another and joined in, throwing their own bits of food at the Ranger. Gandalf merely sighed and shook his head, but looked secretly pleased to see them all relaxed at last. Aragorn tapped more weed down into the bowl of his pipe and made himself more comfortable, stretching out his legs to warm his feet by the fire.

"My brother," Faramir repeated with a scolding tone as he tried to rein in the merriment, "is as strong in the gifts of Numenor as Aragorn or I. I have sometimes drawn on his strength to complement the Healing and other skills you taught me, Gandalf. Boromir has had no such training."

"There was never time," Boromir said.

"True," Gandalf said quietly. "For the Captain General of Gondor is not only its sword arm but also its shield."

Faramir nodded. "Long has he stood between my father and harm to one and all."

"We all played our part," Boromir said with gruff embarrassment.

"But none had your particular skills," Faramir corrected quietly.

Gandalf nodded agreement. "The same that will carry aid to Frodo and final victory."

"You mean the plan is to use more spooky stuff?" Garad sounded dismayed. "Our General has done that --- badly -- in the past, sure. But it turns my hair white and gets my boots wet."

"You have not a single strand of white hair," Faramir told him, "And you got new boots after you managed to ruin the last pair by getting your foot sliced."

"It wasn't my fault the damm Easterling was lying on the ground!" Garad said as he had done many times before and with unflagging indignation.

"It _was_ your fault he was on the ground," Boromir corrected, amused. "But, for your information, we're not going near water tomorrow."

"Some consolation," Garad huffed. "As long as I get to do the fighting and not this… other stuff."

"We will need you, too," Gandalf said, lost to his contemplation of the fire. "You are of Numenorean blood, also. But more, your heart carries much light."

"Oh, Valar!" Garad moaned.

Aragorn snorted but was deadly serious as he explained, "We fight fire with fire and use Sauron's tactics against him. He seeks to cause despair. Our laughter wounds him," He paused then added almost in a whisper, "Our love will be his downfall."

"Precisely," Gandalf said, having heard despite the quiet tone. "Boromir will be the channel, thus," he turned to the Man in question. "He must have a solid Shield."

"No problem there," Boromir said and gripped the edge of the big shield that lay close by his side.

Faramir shook his head with a rueful smile. "We're not talking about that kind of shield."

"There is no other kind as effective."

Gandalf winced.

"If he can't build a Shield about himself… " Aragorn said, suddenly genuinely worried. He had not known just how inexperienced Boromir was in matters of using the power of the spirit domain. But of course, he was not a Healer, and only Healers ventured there on any regular basis.

"It's too dangerous," Faramir agreed.

"This is our best chance, the only way we can help Frodo," Boromir protested. "He was weary when we saw him last. I do not want to think how much more so he is now."

"Why does Boromir need a shield?" Merry wanted to know.

"Other than that big thing, there, that is." Pippin shoved it with his hairy foot, making Boromir steady it before it rolled toward the flames.

"You've seen lightning?" Aragorn asked.

"Of course," The Hobbits nodded. "Lots of times."

"You saw Saruman bring a mountain down on us all," Gandalf put in. "Lightning is a natural expression of that same kind of power."

"You're going to send lightning through Boromir?" Pippin said in horror, Boromir himself unable to stop from flinching.

"Not exactly," Gandalf paused, clumsily trying to think of some other explanation and only succeeding in making them all the more nervous.

"It's the power that carries life through our bodies, that holds our love, our dreams," Faramir said softly, regarding the fire. "A far greater power than lightning."

"But…" Merry spluttered.

"That will need to be one very strong and unusual shield," Garad said grimly. "We're out of time. Faramir can do it for Boromir, he's done it often enough for others. Scary as it is, Boromir is our archer this time, and we'll be his shield wall."

Faramir slapped his friend on the back. "Of course! I should have thought of that!"

"It could work," Gandalf muttered.

"It will work," Aragorn confirmed. "Faramir and I, together. All you need do, Boromir, is stay inside the shield wall we place around you."

"I can still reach Frodo?" he asked.

"Yes."

It was said so hesitantly that Boromir prompted, "What?"

Again, Faramir and Aragorn exchanged wary looks.

"It will be enough," Gandalf put in tersely.

Boromir cursed under his breath and ran a hand through his hair. "Speak plainly!"

Faramir sighed heavily. "The amount of strength we can channel through you depends on the strength of the shield. With Celeborn and Elrond we could make the shield stronger, but…"

"Then I could not reach Frodo?" Boromir guessed.

"Not and stay alive."

"There is no need for more power," Gandalf repeated irritably. "We already have Power and Shielding equal to the task. There is no need to endanger yourself further, Boromir."

"Good," Merry said, exchanging a relieved nod with Pippin.

Pippin poked Boromir in the side. "Just promise you'll do what they tell you."

"I promise I will do no more than what is needed to aid Frodo and Sam in destroying the Ring," Boromir said levelly, not looking at the Hobbits but staring fixedly at shining metallic symbols on his shield.

Aragorn just barely heard his brother's muttered curse.

Garad didn't bother to whisper. "Oh, great," he said heavily. "I will not regale innocents such as yourselves with the story of what happened the last time our Captain General made a hedged promise like that one."

"A story?" Pippin said brightly.

"Sleep," Gandalf ordered. "There'll be enough entertainment tomorrow."

"But we always sleep better with a story first," Merry said.

"You know, like we did on the trail," Pippin agreed.

"And this time it won't be Boromir telling us about everyone else," Merry said.

"Right," Pippin continued, leaning over to give Boromir a poke. "Finally we get to hear something about you."

Garad grinned, "Well, it was about ten years ago, we were on the hunt for some Haradhrim raiders down close to the Pelargir, and… "

Boromir groaned.


	24. Chapter 25

Ch 25

Boromir had to shake himself to be sure he was awake. This moment was so surreal. He had been to the Black Gates several times before, nothing new there. But this time ---

At his side rode Aragorn, King Elessar, the banner of the White Tree flying , proudly carried by Captain Aradan who rode slightly behind the group with the other banner bearer, Eomer's Man, Gamling. The Elven banners would have been there among them, as would Imrahil's, but those troops were their trick up the sleeve, hidden on the right and left flanks by Gandalf's magic. From the enemy's point of view, it would seem only a ragged band of survivors had dared come to battle them. Men of the South, standing alone, as ever they had for so many long, bloody centuries past.

There was, however, yet one banner missing from the challenge they carried openly to Sauron's armies.

Aragorn turned and gave Boromir a quizzical regard. "Well, My Prince?"

Boromir blinked, sure he would never get used to that title. It wasn't official yet, not really, maybe Boromir could still wriggle out of it somehow. As he had told Aragorn when his King had said such was his desire, Boromir was a soldier first and a statesman last. He preferred military rank alone. Make Faramir Prince of Gondor, he could deal with all the court intrigues and tedious council meetings. Let Faramir sit there and argue points of law until everyone was yawning. That had earned him a swat from his brother. Boromir smiled at the memory.

"Come on, now laddie," Gimli prompted. "Enough with the suspense."

That broke the spell, this was indeed real, not a dream from his boyhood. He pulled the furled up cloth free of the saddle bag behind his hip and slipped it on to the standard pole handed him by Faramir.

"Together," he told his brother. Faramir held his gaze, his eyes swimming. He reached across from his mount and his gloved hand closed about the banner pole just below Boromir's grip. For a long moment, they could not look away from the other's eyes, reading so much, so many years, so much struggle, so many deaths…

"For all those who went before," Boromir said huskily, aware that his King, the unseen Elven Lords, Eomer, all watched, riveted, as silent and still as the ghosts Boromir sensed gathered, waiting.

This was Gondor's moment.

"For Gondor!" Faramir called.

"Gondor!" the chant went up, resounding as if to bring down the evil black stone before them.

Both arms lifted.

The banner unfurled, caught the breeze, spread wide and high and glorious. Sable cloth, white tree, silver stars, those were familiar. But now the stars were a full circle about the tree and it was cradled in pure silver outspread swan wings, pinned in the center by the founding stone, Anarion's Sun in Splendor. Wrought in brilliant gold thread, it harvested the light that fell in a shower of golden rain over all present.

When at last the soldiers settled, Aragorn turned his horse and called, "My people! Behold the Princes of the Royal House of Mirriltar! The sons of Anarion have well-honoured their vow of fealty as Stewards to the House of Hurin, as have all the people of Gondor! The Rule of Hurin is ended! Earnur is dead! Long live the House of Mirriltar! Long live the Princes, Boromir and Faramir!

"Mirriltar! Boromir! Faramir!"

Garad urged his horse closer and Boromir saw tears tracked down the Man's travel-grimed face. Fiercely proud, the blue of his eyes had deepened to the colour of a stormy sea. His jaw was set hard, fighting the currents of emotion. Boromir dipped his head in acknowledgment, too moved to find Garad's speechlessness amusing.

Garad cleared his throat. "May I have the honour, my Lords?" He held out his hand for the banner.

"It is our honour, to have the Rangers carry it," Boromir replied, and added, smiling a little to break the formality. "Not to mention the Man who's made a life-time career of saving our asses from the fire. Literally, in more recent days.

That had Garad snort and look more himself as he accepted the banner and lifted it high.

"Now, together," Aragorn called, reining his horse about once more, "we bring judgement and death to Sauron!"

He kicked his horse into a canter, the others following, banners flying.

Before the Black Gates they halted.

The only sound was the flapping of the banners in the cold wind and the creaking of leather, the nervous whickering and snorting of the horses. To all appearances, none lived behind that towering, menacing barrier, shadow and night, as black as death.

"Where are they?" Pippin said when the silence lengthened, grating already raw nerves.

Aragorn rode a little closer and, brandishing Anduril in a flash of silver, bellowed, "Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth that justice be done upon him!"

The monstrous gates creaked slowly open and a single rider appeared upon a dark horse. The creature was completely covered in spiked and scalloped armour, only its misshapen mouth visible.

Boromir stared then snorted amusement and shook his head. Only Sauron could have created so ludicrous, so tortured a being. Its mouth was full of out-sized razor sharp teeth, each as long as a Man's hand. Boromir could not imagine how the thing could eat. It seemed to have already reduced its own lips to bleeding, though he realised, unsettled, that blood may not be its own. Did it drink the blood of its victims? He shook himself again, reminded of Gandalf's warning: Sauron's first attack would be at their minds, instilling terror and despair. He focused on his initial amusement instead, and laughed.

That was definitely the right move. Gimli barked his own contemptuous mirth. Boromir could sense the creature's insult like a wave of simmering heat. Better, he heard Pippin's exhalation of relief, saw Merry nod encouragement to his cousin.

"My master, Sauron the Great, bids you welcome," the creature said, its teeth tearing at its lips with each word. "Is there any in this rout with the authority to treat with me?"

"The least among us would have to stoop to come anywhere near to your baseness," Aragorn provoked, softly, fiercely, making Boromir want to cheer. "But needs must."

"We do not come to treat with Sauron, faithless and accursed," Gandalf told the thing, calmly. "We come to end him forever."

"Old Greybeard. I have a token I was bidden show thee."

The thing pulled something from a sack and held it up.

Frodo's mithril shirt.

Boromir inhaled sharp shock, cold ice flooding his gut.

"Frodo! No!" Pippin and Merry cried, absolute distress.

The creature threw the shirt to Gandalf and he caught it, stared at it in frowning disbelief.

"Pippin! Merry!" Boromir called, firmly. "Remember!" He lay a gloved hand over his heart, reminding them of the link he shared with their friend and cousin. He knew Frodo lived, was free. "Wait! Let it entrap itself."

The Hobbits, steadied by his words, nodded, and sat back, waiting for their secret strategy to sweep this fetid creature away like the excrement it was.

"The Halfling was dear to thee, I see," it continued with its lies.

Aragorn exchanged a knowing look with his friends. The thing had the mithril shirt, but it had nothing else. They nodded, waiting, as hungry as wolves in the pack, ready to strike.

"Know that he suffered greatly at the hands of his host. Who would've thought that one so small could endure so much pain? And he did, Gandalf. He did."

"That is quite enough," Boromir said with deceptive mildness. "Our friend is free and whole! This I know beyond doubt! The One Ring reveals to us all we command of it. "

For the first time, the Mouth shifted uneasily. "Then it is as my Master suspects. Which of you carries It? Surely you no longer allow these pitiful Halflings to bear Sauron's desire?"

"Perhaps," Aragorn said. "And perhaps not. Come, find out, if you dare." Aragorn rode casually closer. "Go, pedal your pitiful deceits to your lackeys who need such lies to imagine victory! Such cannot be yours! Sauron's doom is at hand!"

"And who is this?" The creature sneered. "Isildur's heir? It takes more to make a king than a broken Elvish blade."

In one easy, powerful sweep Anduril took the thing's head clean from its shoulders. The helmed skull bounced in the dirt. Eomer spat at it.

"Fool!" Faramir said, "It is never the blade, it is always the hand that wields it."

"I guess that concludes negotiations," Gimli growled.

"I like a meeting that ends decisively," Boromir said with a laughing nod to Aragorn who bent to clean his blade before resheathing it. "I hope you use the same tactic with the ditherers at Council Meetings!"

Snorting amusement, Aragorn led them back to the lines.

Surveying the ranks, Boromir felt for the troops who had survived the carnage of the Pelennor only to find themselves facing down Sauron. The younger soldiers' faces were stark white, though their jaws were set with determination. Still, their hands were unsteady. Boromir flicked a glance to Aragorn, and blinked. His friend's eyes were stern, his head high, not the least trace of doubt shadowing him. This was a Man who knew who he was, why he was, and what he had been born to be. Minas Tirith was no longer just the distant center of his kingdom, it was home. Arwen, his Queen, had come to him.

King Elessar's time was nigh. He had come to their aid as promised. A legend rode at Boromir's side, as real as life.

Aragorn nodded grimly, sharply, telling Boromir he understood. It was not fair to ask this of these Men and these boys, yet it was the only way. Their King would ask it of them, and they would not fail him as they had never failed their Captain General.

"Sons of Gondor! Of Rohan! My brothers!" Aragorn called, urging Brego and down along the line of the gathered army, "I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me. A day may come when the courage of Men fails, when we forsake our friends, and break all bonds of fellowship, but it is not this day!"

Boromir swallowed hard, remembering his first sight of Aragorn, the hesitant Dunedain Ranger who sought exile rather than the throne, who would abandon his people, his home, fearing himself to be carrying an inherent weakness. Then, step by painful step, all the long hard months on the road south, through Moria, through Gandalf's apparent fall, into Lothlorien to be tempted once more by safe haven among the Elves. Then, the river, Frodo's near death, Amon Hen. A king had been forged through trial as surely as the blade he now wielded.

Aragorn wheeled his mount once more, his eyes never leaving their piercing, sweeping regard of the brave Men he asked to stand and perhaps die for him.

"An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the Age of Men comes crashing down, but it is not this day! This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand, Men of the West!"

The soldiers drew swords. "Gondor! Rohan! Elessar!" A mighty cheer.

Faramir turned to meet his brother's eyes, shining triumph, daring fate.

"Nice speech," Boromir said when he could find his voice. "Good and short."

Faramir grinned agreement. "More time for fighting!"

"So, let's get to it!" Garad slammed the sharpened point of the new banner pole hard into the earth, the emblems of Boromir's family flying high and clear, a challenge to the fouled sky of Mordor. Garad dismounted close to guard the Mirriltar standard and draw his bow from his back. He flashed a boyish grin, his dark hair streaming back from his face in the breeze as he looked up at them. Suddenly, Boromir wanted to whoop elation – with Men such as these at his side, victory would soon be theirs.

"Mere moments, my Princes," Garad saluted them, "to see off this rabble. Then we get to the serious business of…"

"Drinking!" Boromir returned the salute. "Make pincushions of them! For myself, I prefer chopping heads."

Garad rolled his eyes, smiling as Faramir dismounted at his side. "No finesse, your brother, just hack, hack, hack."

"Her Grace might be of a different opinion," Boromir said with a wink and smug smile making Garad and Faramir snort in unison.

Boromir assisted Pippin to dismount and gave his horse's reins over to the soldier assigned the task, Claurion, who would thus, hopefully, be safe with the other recruits far to the rear. The other horses, too, were being led away, Brego going with them most reluctantly. Suddenly, Boromir was reminded of Theodred, he and Brego were always together. He could hope his friend was here, somehow, in spirit. The last he had heard of Theodred was not good, his life hanging by a thread as he battled infection and severe wounding.

Boromir could have wished Merry and Pippin too, were kept as hopefully safe as Claurion and the horses. But, no, they had more than earned their place here in the front ranks, as close as they could be, in this moment, to their hard-travelled cousin and his friend.

"Stay close, now," Boromir said as Merry came to join them.

Not happy that he must stay back, Boromir took up position a little way behind the wall of archers. If Frodo's moment of testing, of trial with the Ring, were to link with him as suddenly as expected, it was most unlikely that Boromir could also remain aware of his immediate surrounds. He must rely on more than a metaphysical shield. Faramir and Garad, Aragorn and Aradan, Legolas and Gimli, Merry and Pippin – there were many to guard his back, and do it well.

"Never thought I'd see the day I'd fight side by side with an elf." That was Gimli, looking up at his tall friend. Boromir waited, curious, for Legolas' rejoinder.

"Nor I that of a Dwarf. What say we call it rather, side by side with a friend?"

Gimli nodded, something suspiciously like moisture gleaming in his eyes. Then he cleared his throat with his customary grunt. "How long?" he asked Boromir. "This could be tight."

Garad, overhearing snorted grim amusement for the understatement.

Boromir shrugged. "They will reach the Door soon. What happens after that…?" He shrugged again. Aragorn, he noted, had dismounted in time to listen. He slapped Boromir's back then turned away to take up position out front, where Boromir would normally have led the way himself.

"Good,' Gimli said. "Still time to win the count, then."

"The count?" Boromir asked, then, remembering, grinned. "Not much room for archery, when this really gets hot."

It was Faramir's turn to snort. "Just watch us. Rangers!" He signaled. "Form up!"

"There they go, hogging the glory!" Boromir taunted. Faramir flipped two fingers in a derisive salute.

Boromir laughed. "Gondor!" he bellowed, "Front and center! Form ranks behind your King!"

Rohan and Eomer had the flanks, ready with the cavalry. The Elvish armies and the bulk of the Rohirrim, hidden by Gandalf's magic, would be ready to come into the classic pincer formation as the expected second enemy attack poured from the gates to take the bait.

"Hold! Hold!" Boromir bellowed, his voice echoing the same command from Faramir to his archers as the first ranks of Orcs charged toward them.

When enough of the enemy were within range, Faramir shouted the order, "Fire!"

The rain of arrows went on for what seemed forever, time slowing. Orcs fell like wheat before the scythe, rank upon rank. They would have turned and run but for the overseers who lashed at them from behind with whips. Others were trapped by wounded and dying Trolls, those brought down with arrows in their eyes, most targeted by Faramir's Men, some by Legolas. It was as magnificent a display of accurate shooting as any could wish. Then at last, the lethal rain ended. The Rangers slung bows and drew swords, keeping but a few arrows in reserve.

"About time they left some for us," Gimli grumbled, brandishing his axe. An eerie quiet descended on the battlefield, replacing the steady hum of arrows.

"For Frodo!" Aragorn said so softly that only those near heard. They could wait no longer if they were truly to keep Sauron's attention fixed upon them. Aragorn turned, Anduril at the ready and stormed toward the enemy.

"Charge!" Boromir roared, knowing Aragorn would lead them only so far, a feint to draw the next wave of Orcs into the right position for Eomer's cavalry and the Elven infantry to close behind and begin to slaughter them.

The clash of swords, the muted sounds, the dust, the blood. Chop, hack, parry, thrust, so familiar to Boromir after decades of fighting that he could and had done this in his sleep. Become the sword, be one with the sword.

Then, abruptly, he felt terrible heat, scorching, searing, tearing the breath from his lungs. Fire all about, molten glowing red, reflected from rock walls.

"I see you, Son of the Traitor!" the familiar awful taunting of the Ring was back, clearer stronger, more vicious than ever before.

"I am my mother's son!" Boromir barked, snarling ferociously. Close by, vaguely, he heard someone say to him in surprise, "What?"

The Ring's power was intense, but Boromir sensed an undercurrent of fear beneath excited anticipation of return to its Master. The Ring's focus hurried elsewhere, but rather than let it go, Boromir chased after, and held tight. It did not bother to shake him off, too busy with its own survival.

Then he heard it.

"Just throw it into the fire!" Sam's voice, begging, desperate.

Boromir blinked dizzily as the battle field suddenly vanished and he saw Frodo standing, grimy, exhausted, bruised, a broken span of rock at his back and a molten river glowing from the chasm beneath.

Frodo's eyes, his eyes, were all wrong. Blue ice, not Frodo inside, something else.

Sauron.

Frodo held the Ring with his right hand, his left close, the forefinger ready.

"Frodo! No!" Boromir and Sam cried as one.

Boromir felt something slam into his knees, a part of him aware he had fallen, his sword loose in his gloved fist.

"Form up! Form up!" Garad and Faramir shouted, blocking, shielding him, the other Rangers and the Fellowship closing with them.

Concentrate, Boromir remembered, and heard Gandalf's calm voice at his side, "Good. What do you see?"

Boromir shook his head, too intent on the scene before him to answer. "Do it now!" He ordered Gandalf. "It has him!"

"Boromir!" Aragorn heard Faramir's alarmed cry. He cut down the Orc who swung at him, and clear, for the moment, turned to see Boromir slowly going to his knees, his eyes unfocused, and his lips forming a word, no, a name….

Frodo!

Then, Aragorn felt it too, the heat, the terrible aching exhaustion.

"Aragorn! You are the Shield not the Link!" Gandalf ordered.

The Rangers, Ciran, Damrod, Garad and others tightened ranks, taking up the slack, aware of what was happening. Aragorn took the moment given him, and concentrated on Boromir's essence. He staggered a little, dizzied, as the Shield Wall came into being -- Faramir, Gandalf, himself, the other two Rings of power, Elrond and Celeborn, at the ready. It was working! Boromir had Linked to Frodo, and was giving him strength, speaking to him, a bright counterpoint to the dark seduction of the Ring.

At last Boromir had his wish, Aragorn thought, but in the right way – they were using the Ring against itself. The Link would not have been possible had the thing not tried repeatedly to attack the Man during their long journeying. Aragorn turned his conscious mind back to battle but his inner energy remained with the psychic Shield Wall. He could cut and parry, walking in a dream, so familiar was he with the patterns of sword-fighting. The Alliance Armies were gaining ground, both here and on the flanks where Celeborn's troops were gathered. Aragorn could sense building panic and desperation in the enemy ranks.

Boromir blinked and shook his head, sweating, seeing double, seeing through both his eyes and Sam's.

About him invisible yet potently viable, Aragorn and Faramir, guarded him, united.

"Ready?" Gandalf warned.

"Do it!" Boromir snapped. A burning tidal wave of power washed over and through him, hurting him as it flooded into his mind, his limbs. He braced, then remembered, no, don't fight it. Let it flow through and allow Gandalf to refine it to revitalize Frodo's will.

Suddenly, Boromir saw Sam. The stronger Link had pushed him directly into Frodo's mind. There he found but the merest spark of Frodo remained, but it was still fighting, hopeless, feebly. So tired. The weight of millenia of suffering, cracking, crumbling. Pain, so much pain. So much easier to just let go. Cease to exist. End it all. Let Sauron have all he wanted. Boromir well knew death's alluring temptation, the ease, the finality it offered. No more struggle.

Then, he would remember Faramir, remember they stood Together.

Harnessing the current of clean power fed to him by Gandalf, Boromir honed it and launched it with all his will, hoping to see it spill and spread where it was most needed.

"Frodo!" he called. "I am here! It's all right! We have you!"

"What? Who?" Frodo mumbled, so weak, so far away. "Boromir?"

"Yes, we are all here," Boromir commanded, "Look at Sam. Together we can do this. Hear me, Frodo, listen to me, to _me,_ not to It!"

"Boromir?" Frodo asked a little more strongly, his essence brightening in Boromir's sight.

"I am here," Boromir repeated.

"As am I," Gandalf added.

"Gandalf!" Frodo gasped, disbelieving, joyful. And Boromir plainly read his thought, his emotion as Frodo, relieved, believed at last, he was at rest, had joined his friends in honorable death.

Why would Frodo think he was dead? Then, in Frodo's memory, he saw himself, barely recognizable, his face so gaunt, so white. He was lying on a litter at Amon Hen, covered by blankets, Aragorn bent over him, listening to his terrible struggle for air. Frodo's despairing voice saying, "I waited too long."

"Peace," The Ring crooned, drawing on Frodo's overwhelming desire. "You tried," It told him, as ever using a veiled version of the truth to achieve Its desire. "You went further then any. Rest now."

Boromir cursed. "No, Frodo! We're alive! We're all here at the Black Gates! We're with you! We can help! You and Sam do not do this alone! Look!"

Awkwardly, he tried to open his mind to show Frodo what his eyes revealed to him. Again he was aware of his own body, found he was still on his knees, swaying dizzily one way then the other. The fighting was much fiercer about him. Something had gone wrong. Eomer and the Elves were stalled by something else coming at them. Nazgul!

"Alive?" Frodo asked him, desperate, wanting it to be true.

"Alive! We win, Frodo! We win!" Boromir proclaimed fiercely. There was not a moment to lose. "Now, look at Sam! There is victory!"

Frodo obeyed and saw as did Boromir, the pleading love in his friend's weary brown eyes.

"Just throw it away!" Sam urged.

Behind Sam, something moved. Squinting, Boromir could just make out something sprawled on the ground, moving stealthily, at Sam's back. Gollum! The creature rose, a rock in its long-fingered grasp and calculating evil sharp in its eyes and gleaming from its bared teeth.

"Sam!" Boromir shouted in union with Frodo. "Behind you!"

The Ring chuckled to itself. It had won, empowering Gollum and forcing their attention elsewhere.

BREAK

Aragorn blocked and hewed down yet another Orc and tried to step forward to kill another but was held in place by the sheer press of numbers. Suddenly, ahead, to the West, dazzling him, as blinding as the lowering sun appearing in a final burst from behind a bank of darkly glowering, murky clouds, something huge materialised.

"Elessar, my Son!" the vision spoke, standing radiant before the sunset, commanding, friendly and sure, its left arm outstretched, a familiar sword held firm in its right. "On the wings of the Valar I am come to you! We will fight side by side. Let us finish this together as is fitting."

Peering, disbelieving yet hopeful, into the blinding white light that surrounded the being, Aragorn saw not a helm, but a winged crown, the emblems those of ancient Eriador. It could not be, and yet his heart told him there was truth in the declaration.

"Elendil?"

"Yes." He stepped closer, still reaching out with its left arm. "Come, stand by me. We will have victory."

"Traitor!" Aragorn whispered, "Morgoth was a Valar!"

The bright image wavered. Aragorn knew that seductive voice, the same that powered the Ring. This was not Elendil returned, it was Sauron himself seeking to foul and break the Link between Frodo and The Fellowship. Gandalf's calm flooded Aragorn's mind, telling him he would guard the Link, allowing Aragorn to concentrate fully on the matter at hand.

Aragorn nodded understanding and let go his hold on the Shield Wall to focus all the strength of his spirit like a spear at the enemy. And, as mist before the noon sun, the deceitful cloak evaporated, revealing the full truth.

"Sauron!" Aragorn snarled.

Massive in spiked black armour, the Dark Lord towered over him. In his left hand he held a monstrous mace, in his right a sword, its black blade thick and wide and sharp. A jaggedly scalloped helm masked his face, but the red eyes were unmistakable, utterly malevolent. His gaze was fixed not on Aragorn, but rather, swept the field of battle, searching for something, someone. Boromir.

"You will not have him!" Aragorn spat, stepping forward.

"So, you see me. Good, now, fight me!" Sauron moved, lunging swiftly forward. The remnants of his radiant veil were sucked down by a dark swirling whirlpool that reformed to reveal its true center not only to Aragorn but to all present.

A murmuring of fear and dread arose from the ranks, the Men were close to breaking. "Gondor!" Faramir shouted, Eomer bellowing his own rallying cry, "Rohan!"

"Hear me!" Aragorn commanded, using Power to lift his voice above the tumult. "Sauron fears you! It is your Captain General he seeks! Hold fast! Protect Boromir!"

"Boromir!" The battle-cry thundered forth, a rumbling implacable defiance. Nothing would make Gondor's men retreat now. They would never abandon their beloved Captain.

"No!" Snarling rage and hatred, Sauron brought the massive sword down in a hammering blow. Anduril was ready, singing as it sliced upward to meet the ugly blade in a showering of sparks, the jolt coursing through Aragorn's arm. He slid Anduril free and surged forward and under, driving up hard at Sauron's belly. Sauron blocked the blow, laughing a cruel, grating sound that made Aragorn want to cover his ears. Another blow came toward him, and Aragorn ducked beneath the mace to block the sword thrust that came at him at the same time.

The duel was on in earnest.

About them, the fighting was much fiercer. A concentrated enemy wedge had formed, led by a monstrous Troll, driving ferociously to get to Boromir and strike him down. Faramir and Garad, echoed by every Man present, continued to bellow Boromir's name.

"Boromir! Boromir!"

Then, suddenly, Faramir's rallying shout ended in a grunt of pain.

"No!" Merry and Pippin screamed.

Plainly through the Link, Aragorn heard Boromir's terrified cry "Mir!" at the same moment came Garad's wordless howl of rage.

BREAK

Something heavy thumped into Boromir's side. The warmth of Faramir's bright shielding presence guttered, wavered. Merry and Pippin screamed, "No!"

"Mir!" Boromir bellowed.

Leaving the threat of Gollum to Sam who had turned about to confront it, Boromir returned his Sight to the battlefield. Half-conscious, shaking his head, Faramir was down on his knees, leaning heavily against Boromir, still trying to lift his sword, his brow painted scarlet with blood, his helm gone. Too groggy and disoriented to stand, Boromir could not help him. Above them, Garad fought like a madman. With his back braced against the banner pole, his legs wide and his boots planted like bedrock, he took down rank upon rank of enemy, his sword humming in an arc of death. His fair face was contorted with rage as he hewed and hacked and blocked the furious attack that would take his Captains' lives.

Then, a new enemy emerged, the ranks parting as it shoved them aside. A monster, a massive, towering troll tramping friend and foe alike, as it carved a gory path with club and sword. Garad took not a backward step. He struck with all his strength, slicing deep into the troll's knee joint, but only angering the creature further. Splashed crimson and death black, weaving around Garad's next strike and parry, it lifted its giant arm. Slashing its terrible jagged blade down, it thudded into Garad's upper right arm, shattering bone and severing muscle. Blood sprayed out, splattering warm into Boromir's eyes and across his face, the taste of death metallic in his mouth.

He wiped a shaking gloved hand over his face, frantically trying to keep track, saw Faramir staggering up, heard his anguished, screaming, "No!"

Vividly painted with both his own and Garad's blood, his blue eyes unfocused, blinking wide and bright amid the staining red, Faramir hacked blindly upward, striking the creature's groin. It howled and bent forward, its dripping blade swinging wide. Then, an arrow impaled its right eye, another and another abruptly spiking its face. Damrod and Ciran joined Legolas' lethal fire as he leaped protectively over Garad. Driving into the gap, following close at his friend's side, Gimli wielded his axe, hammered hard into the tendon at the back of the heel. The thing swayed, a blotting shadow against the sky, then toppled, falling with a jarring, groaning crash, everyone scattering to avoid being crushed.

Merry and Pippin struggled to aid Damrod and Ciran drag Garad's limp body back into a frantically forming square, Aradan rescuing both royal banners. Others urged Faramir back and hands clutched at Boromir, too. Stumbling, unwilling and unable to entirely abandon the Link to aid his comrades, Boromir fell back. Terrified and panicked, the Hobbits' eyes were white beneath the filth of battle. Their gazes were fixed forward. Boromir looked, gasped as he saw what they did -- Aragorn desperately holding off a ferocious rain of sword and mace blows from a giant armoured in black spikes. Sauron!

Shadows swept overhead as Nazgul swooped, tearing at the Infantry, Riders and Elves alike.

"Boromir!" Gandalf commanded. "I will take the Nazgul. Concentrate on Frodo!"

Casting one last despairing look at Faramir stooped over a dying Garad, Boromir obeyed.

Gollum collapsed unmoving at Sam's feet, his bald scalp bloodied. The rock he had held was now clutched, stained, in Sam's fist.

But, Boromir noted with dismay, Sam's expression was anything other than victorious.

"No! Please, Frodo! !" he begged. "Don't leave me!"

"It's the only way," Frodo said.

What? Back in Frodo's mind again, Boromir could not see what the Hobbit was doing to so distress his friend. He felt Frodo's so-heavy, so weary feet moving, dragging one step at a time, backward. All of Frodo's remaining strength held to that one impossible task. One step, another, then it will be over. The Ring will be no more.

"Stop!" the Ring ordered frantically, no longer hissing of peace.

The chasm! The fire! So close it was stinging, burning the backs of Frodo's legs even through the protection of his clothing. He was edging toward it, not daring to look, but intent on letting himself fall, taking the Ring with him into the fire.

"No!" Boromir bellowed. "Don't, Frodo! Not like this!"

Frodo's dry lips split painfully in his burned face. "It will be all right, Boromir," he whispered. "It's my turn to save others. Sam will be safe. All will be safe."

Frodo wanted everyone else safe, if he thought he was endangering Boromir….

"Don't!" Boromir pleaded and added, "You fall and I die too. I am too closely linked."

"What--?" Frodo's feet halted.

The lie had worked. But the Ring still must be destroyed, and to do that would take something else, a greater power.

"Here," Boromir said calmly, "You can do it, you can throw it in. Just take the strength from me, take it from us all."

"Boromir! No!" Gandalf broke in with urgent warning.

Too late.

Boromir easily punched through Celeborn and Elrond's Shielding, his Bond was not as strong with them as with his brother and his friend and could be more easily evaded.

Power streamed through him, searing, burning and he had to bite down to stop his agonized screams.

Suddenly, he saw himself, back at Amon Hen, fighting, desperate, barely able to breathe let alone stand. And he saw it again, his shield rolling impossibly slowly on its edge toward the water.

His shield. He saw it made anew, reclaimed from the river and repaired by many caring hands. The joy that lit his brother's grin and the pride and relief in Garad's eyes at Boromir's surprised and pleased reaction as they presented it to him, as bright as the arrowheads they had fashioned to become stars. Pippin hopping with excitement about him.

And there was more. Much more.

The Shield Union.

Liel, her loving eyes, as grey and deep as the ocean, shining with tears of joy. What had been stolen from her in hatred was returned in love. Her smile, her kiss warm on his cheek as he bent and secured the ribbon at her throat, the Union settling above the swell of her breasts where their daughter was cradled, asleep in her arms.

The Light of the Valinar continued to flood through him, rushing to aid Frodo, and draining all from Boromir, as powerful and deadly as the current of the icy river in which they had once stood together to defeat The Ring. This time Boromir would not escape. The whirlpool had him, swamping and drowning him in pure energy, tearing him asunder.

From a distance, Boromir could feel Frodo turning, lifting his arm, reaching out his hand, calling to Sam to help him. Together, the friends would destroy the Ring.

Boromir smiled. His death was nothing in face of that.

But, as Frodo lifted the Ring, still calling to Sam, It grabbed for him one last time, shining hypnotically before his eyes. Frodo wavered, paused, caught by It's siren voice, not hearing Sam who staggered closer.

BREAK

The chain of Sauron's mace caught Aragorn's armoured side, driving all the air from his lungs in a pained gasp. He fell, his helm gone. Dazed, he saw Sauron's sword edge come swooping down toward his exposed face.

BREAK

Boromir could feel It, too. Cold, infinitely cruel, The Ring pushed back with all the cunning, festering hatred and suffering of millennia reinvigorating Its power.

"No!" Boromir pleaded. He was too weak, too far gone to help, nothing left of him to channel more power.

Then, he heard it.

"I am here."

Liel!

He saw her, the present moment now. Her hand clutching the replica shield at her throat. He should not have been able to see its rim through her fingers, but the seven stars of Gondor thrummed with iridescent brilliance, harvesting and carrying the life she gave into them. And from them into him.

"We are here."

Arwen! Liramir! Elena! Eowyn! All those gathered in the White City, heeding the call to arms, as ever.

Another, different in form but not in essence.

What? His Shield Brother! Theodred!

Boromir wanted to cheer. But was Theodred coming to him from within the Borderlands or from the realm of the living?

_Gondor!_  
The spirits of an entire people, living and dead, raised the cheer, those same who had answered his call in the maze.

There was more than enough power in their love to save both he and Frodo.

Frodo curled his fist about the Ring.

"Shut up," he said, clear and sure. "I'm done with you."

Boromir breathed again, watching as at last, Sam reached them.

Sam took Frodo's other hand, the power crested. Tears streaked both their dirt-caked faces.

"Together," Frodo said.

"Together," Sam repeated, weeping.

Frodo squeezed the hand within his. "Samwise, the Brave."

"And Frodo of the Shire," Sam smiled.

The Ring's scream was muffled, distant.

Then, united, the two who had walked side by side across the Plains of Gorgoroth, threw the Ring into the fiery chasm.

BREAK

Disbelieving as death missed him by less than a hand span, Aragorn saw Sauron's sword sending earth spraying upward as it embedded itself in the ground. Sauron turned toward Baradûr. Aragorn blinked, was the tower really swaying, near to toppling? Or was he just so dizzy he couldn't tell the difference? The Eye, high above, turned away from the battle, panicked.

Aragorn rolled to his feet, and came up unsteady but sure. This was his moment. Sauron pivoted too late. Anduril struck, piercing, driving up into through armour plating, sinking deep into the soft belly. Sauron gasped, grunted. Aragorn twisted the blade, driving it higher as Sauron sank slowly to his knees, his own sword fallen from gloved hands that clutched at himself. The Eye exploded.

With a mighty heave, Aragorn pulled Anduril free. "Die!" he spat. Drawing back, swinging, he heard Anduril sing in triumph as it took Sauron's head from his shoulders.

The torso twisted, crumpled in on itself, and turned to ash, carried away on a cooling, clean fresh scent of breeze from the West.

Staggering with exhaustion, coated in sweat, Aragorn turned toward Boromir's crumpled form. And found more horror. Garad, too, was among the fallen. Faramir, his face bloodied, sat cradling Boromir, torn between maintaining that physical and psychic grasp and keeping his brother safe, or adding his Healer's experience to the urgent group working on their dying friend.

Faramir made his decision and it broke his heart. He could save Boromir. He would marshal his strength to reach out to his brother's wandering spirit. Together, they would return to mourn their lost warrior brother.

BREAK

"No!" The Ring shrieked in terror, spinning end over end, falling. It quailed before the hungry shimmering heart of the mountain, the only power in all the world that could devour It.

Boromir saw it hit and sit a moment atop the molten red black stone.

The terrible curse written in fire flared one last time.

The Ring tilted, sank.

Was no more.

Aware his spirit was no longer attached to his body, Boromir found he was far too elated to summon any concern for his own welfare. They had won! They had done it! Minas Tirith would not fall! Gondor, Rohan, all Middle Earth, was safe at last.

Then, a familiar warm presence, coming to him as ever at need.

"Faramir!"

Boromir smiled and let go, knowing he would be caught.

"No, Boromir! Not like that!" Faramir yelped, groggy but urgent.

_What other way is there?_ Boromir wanted to ask. He had no experience of this strange other world.

"I have him!" Aragorn appeared suddenly, calling to Faramir. "Get Garad, you know him better."

_Garad.!_

_Good._ Aragorn instructed Boromir over his rising panic for his friend. Aragorn's voice, dizzyingly, seemed to be coming from somewhere inside Boromir's mind as well as from outside. _Follow that thought, Boromir. It will carry you home. _

Ahead a white light blossomed.

_That's it, _Aragorn affirmed. _Track it. I must hurry._


	25. Chapter 2626

Chapter 26

Coming back into himself, Aragorn shook his head and once more lurched to his feet. Boromir would be safe, if completely drained. Aragorn blinked the sweat from his eyes to see Faramir was still sitting with Boromir's head and shoulders braced against his chest. Merry and Pippin were crouched close by, watching helplessly. They had helped Damrod and Ciran move Garad within Faramir's reach. His face bloodied by a minor scalp wound, Faramir's expression was deep frowning concentration as his right hand clasped Garad's left hand. Ciran cradled the wounded Man's upper body, and Aragorn saw, horrified, that Garad's right arm was near severed from the shoulder, twisted and flung outward at an impossible angle amid a crimson pool of blood. The other Rangers were bent frantically over him, trying to stem the bleeding.

Groggily, Aragorn turned, stumbling as he tried to sheath his sword and go to the wounded Man. Merry and Pippin stood and moved toward him, but Legolas and Gimli were faster, hurrying forward to brace him. His four friends flanked him and Aragorn was painfully grateful for the solace their company offered. He swallowed hard and nodded, finding a thin smile. They said nothing, no one seemed to have words fitting for the moment. Gandalf stood off a little way, his eyes closed, talking to the Valar or up to more wizardry to aid Frodo and Sam, Aragorn was unsure.

Linked as he had chased down Boromir's spirit, Aragorn had been privileged to witness the Ring's destruction. Boromir had again come close to death, risked all, to aid victory, disobeying orders and somehow instinctively, knowing it was all that could be done and must be done to win.

"Did they?" Pippin said, Merry finishing, "What happened? Did Boromir reach Frodo and Sam?" Pippin again, "What happened, Strider! I can't stand not knowing!"

"Me either," Gimli rumbled.

"I saw it," Aragorn said, wonderment filling him as if saying it aloud somehow made it real. "I saw them throw the Ring into the fiery chasm. It's gone."

None said a word, but all gasped sharp elation, their eyes brightening. Together, five of the Fellowship that had formed so long ago in Imladris, turned and stared toward Mordor, hoping...

The most immediately visible symbol of Sauron's ugliness, the tower of Baradûr loomed over all, the Eye twisting and writhing, shrinking away like its master. Abruptly, it exploded and the black tower imploded, cascading down on itself, tier by tier, to topple over and crash with a mighty thud that sent dust and rock flying. The ground convulsed as if revolted by its spreading burden. A giant rolling wave of soil carried outward like a vast tidal surge of the sea, engulfing anything that dared stand before it. The Black Gates and walls teetered, cracked and broke into giant sections, fell, to be eaten alive by the angry earth that opened a chasm between Aragorn's armies and the border of hell. Still the earth convulsed, the chasm widening, chasing down and swallowing rank upon rank of panicked, fleeing Orcs and Trolls.

Behind, Aragorn sensed building trepidation as the stalwart Men of Gondor and Rohan, who had withstood Sauron's concerted attack, afraid that the soil of Mordor would take them too, braced for death. Above was to be found more fury as The Nazgul, screaming, died in a rain of fire spewed from Mount Doom.

"Get the wounded! Get out of here!" someone – Damrod, Aragorn thought -- bellowed.

"No, we are safe," Gimli turned to shout at the Man, his tone awed. "The Earth speaks to me."

"This Land remembers itself!" Aragorn pivoted to rally and reassure them. "It is Gondor once more! It will not harm us."

True to the words, the wave and the chasm that followed in its wake, stopped short and the trembling stilled. The enemy were gone.

There was a long moment's stunned silence.

"Frodo! Sam!" Merry and Pippin took up the cheer, punching the air with their blades in salute. "They did it! They did it!"

About them the Men too began cheering.

Tears made Aragorn's vision blur. A small Hobbit hand curled about his left, another taking his right arm above his sword grip. "Boromir? Garad?"

"Boromir is safe."

Aragorn crossed the few paces to his unconscious friend's side and knelt quickly to check heart beat and breathing despite the fact that Faramir had him. Aragorn's hands itched to repair the wound in Faramir's scalp, but he knew he must not touch him now for the younger Prince needed every ounce of concentration and life-force to maintain his silent Healer's trance, linked now with and anchoring Garad's spirit to his failing body. Briefly, Aragorn considered joining that Link, but dismissed the impulse, sensing it was now so closely entwined in so intricate a pattern that he may do more harm than good with his intrusion.

Instead, he again studied Boromir's pale face, laying a hand to a dirty sweat streaked cheek and smiling affection for a friend whose stubborn will and refusal to surrender always won through. Still smiling, he glanced up to deliver reassurance to those of the Fellowship awaiting his verdict. "He will be well. He need only rest."

With Merry and Pippin hovering at his side, and Legolas and Gimli close behind, Aragorn went next to where Damrod worked desperately on Garad, the other Rangers gathered about, silent and grim. Ciran held Garad's head and shoulders up out of the dirt, the Man's blood caking the leather of the tunic Ciran wore. All attention was focused on Garad's right arm. Damrod's hands were a crimson-flecked, white knuckled grip about the arterial pressure point high under the armpit. Aragorn bent closer, getting his first good look, and his stomach heaved. The sword blow had almost completely severed the limb, splintering bone and shredding muscles and blood vessels. The arm was still attached, but only just, a thin shiny white piece of ligament and bone pinning it to the shoulder.

Aragorn flicked a glance to Garad's still face. He had seen Men near death before…. So white. Unbidden, came the image of the big smiling dark-haired Ranger, always there, full of vibrant optimism and courage, and especially spirited humour. How many years had his laughter warmed and nurtured the twin hearts that carried Gondor's life and hope?

Damrod looked up at him, shattered, every line of his face etched with defeat despite the impossible victory they had won. "The artery must be cauterized. We have no time to build a fire. Is there anything in your knowing that might avail us, My King?"

"Gandalf can---" Aragorn half-turned, but could not see him.

"He is not here," another of the Rangers answered. "He called the eagles to him and they left, heading East."

Aragorn shook his head in self-annoyance. He should have thought to have him quickly aid Garad first but had missed the moment as he sat examining Boromir.

"We'll get your kit," Merry and Pippin, blessedly practical, offered and disappeared back to where they had left the horses with the young groomsmen.

_We search for Frodo and Sam, _Gandalf answered immediately in his mind. "_We must hurry! The mountain dies."_

"Go! With all speed!" Aragorn answered aloud, earning a puzzled frown from the Rangers who waited, every muscle tense. Damrod still watched him with heart-breaking hope and pleading, his bloodied hands no doubt aching with the strain of stanching the bleeding.

"This arm must come off," Damrod said. "Now. Before he wakes."

"I think he'd rather die," Ciran murmured hoarsely, "than never again draw a bowstring."

"What about Elena?!" Damrod snapped, scowling and weeping all at once as he looked down at the dying Man.

Ciran took up the chant. "Elena is waiting for you, Garad. Come on, don't quit on her now."

"Good. Keep talking to him," Aragorn urged. "He desires life, it is but shock that holds him back

"But…" Another Man murmured, touching his own right arm in helpless pain.

"He will keep his arm," Aragorn vowed fiercely, making them stare in disbelief.

"How can that be?! The bone is shattered! Look at it!" Damrod snarled, vehement, hoarse for the tears that choked him. "Better it goes. It will never be whole and will cause nothing but pain."

"I will command it to be whole," Aragorn said, soft and intent, holding the older Ranger's gaze.

"Trust him," a weak voice put in and it was a moment before Aragorn recognized it as Boromir's.

"You must keep still," Aragorn warned, turning sharply to find the Man trying to sit up unaided, his bleary eyes a mix of tears and hope.

Faramir remained in trance, adding to Aragorn's concern as he realised the Man's body was now trembling with strain, his face ever more pale beneath the blood.

"How bad?" Boromir asked, squinting blearily toward his friend and simultaneously gripping Faramir's shaking forearm to steady it.

"We must take his arm," Damrod reported bleakly. "I cannot slow the bleeding much longer."

"He will be well," Aragorn repeated. "Your King commands. Let go of him! There must be no other contact."

Obeying instinctively, Damrod was half way to his feet, Ciran lowering Garad's upper body gently to the ground, before they were aware of moving. Then they balked, Damrod aghast he had released his hold on the artery. He bent urgently down again. "The bleeding…"

"Here!" Merry said, arriving at a run, Aragorn's kit clasped hard against his chest. "Athelas!"

A flask in his hands, Pippin panted at his side, adding, "And Ent water!"

"My thanks." Aragorn took the herb and held it on his palm, indicating Pippin should pour some of the water onto it. Urgently, Aragorn pressed the dampened herb hard into the spurting wound, using both hands, aware all the while of the weight of desperate, grieving love bearing down on him from those gathered about. He flicked a glance toward Boromir, saw the strained, grey face nod reassurance and faith.

"Do it," Boromir said.

Aragorn returned the nod sharply. He took his left hand from the wound to lay it, gory and bloodied, on Garad's marble-grey, cold brow. "I call upon you, upon all who have gone before," he beseeched. "Hear me! Aid me! Make him whole!"

White light blossomed about his fingers, the red of the blood diluted by its intensity until it vanished completely. Aragorn could no longer feel the warm liquid coursing over his fingers.

"Garad! Hear me!" he commanded. "Victory is ours! Live! Gondor calls! Your King wills you return!"

Garad shifted a fraction beneath his grip and Aragorn tightened his fingers over the wound. He could sense Faramir's vibrant presence bringing a shaky Garad closer. Gathering himself, fighting back, the wounded Man's love for Elena and for them all would carry him home. But much damage had been done, and he was dangerously weak. This last effort could as easily rob him of life as save -- and harm Faramir in the doing.

Then, suddenly, Boromir was there, uniting with his friend's struggling will, and adding strength to aid his disoriented brother. Aragorn wanted to rail at the Man for endangering himself again, but dared not distract him. The extra push was working. Heat mounted, brimmed, spilled over, flooding through Aragorn into Garad. He could feel Boromir flinch despite himself, fearing that burning would again consume him and this time Aragorn and Faramir along with it. Aragorn could not begrudge that fear, needing to grit his teeth as the burning pain intensified, higher, sharper until he thought it would rob him of his breathing.

Then, Garad gave a great gasping inhalation that became a groan of pain and effort and his eyelids flickered.

Abruptly, the energy winked out.

Aragorn opened his eyes, stung by the sweat that rang rivulets over his brow and had his hair clinging in sticky strands to his face. He gasped and sat back on his heels.

"Boromir!" Faramir called, half curse, half fear, leaving trance in time to grab his brother before he could topple, again unconscious, face first into the dirt. Wide-eyed, unsure what was happening, Merry and Pippin added their own helping hands until Boromir was leaning back against his brother's shoulder.

Aragorn wanted to examine Garad, but it was all he could do to hold to consciousness himself. He managed to turn his head to meet Faramir's weary eyes. The Man's gaze was once more on target, no longer out of focus, nor was the scalp wound bleeding. He had been healed in the overwhelming backwash of power from Aragorn's Summoning. Then, he realised too, although Faramir had had the strength, his head injury had so dizzied him that he could not quite find the way back. Boromir's appearance had been like the flare of a beacon fire on the ridgeline, showing the way.

Faramir shook his head and smiled in relief. "He's home," he reported happily, looking down at Garad who was tossing his head feebly and moaning more strongly, "Garad's back!" Then, a little sheepishly, Faramir added, "We got lost there for a while."

"You were concussed," Aragorn said. "You did very well."

"It worked!" Merry said, bracing himself to peer over Ciran's shoulder and take a close look at Garad's wound.

"The bleeding has stopped!" Pippin added, tearful with relief.

"King Elessar!" Damrod invoked the name as if he spoke of one of the Valar. Aragorn sighed heavily and hoped they would not suddenly stop seeing him as just another Man, a comrade.

"The Hands of the King." Ciran's joyful weeping over his stirring friend made the familiar words barely discernable. "The arm is whole again."

"He has lost much blood and will yet be very weak," Faramir warned, panting a little with effort as he shifted his no doubt heavy brother's limp form to a more comfortable position to watch the other Rangers who were working to cut away Garad's blood soaked tunic.

Aragorn marshaled his strength to lean forward and examine the wound as Damrod exposed it more fully, cutting away the edges of the already sliced leather sleeve. "Guard him well when he wakes. Be sure he does not overtax himself."

"The wound will need stitching before he can be moved to the hospital wagon," Damrod agreed. "The bone, sinew and artery are repaired, but the wound itself still raw. "

"Bathe it with Ent water," Aragorn advised, pleased to see Pippin already offering the flask.

"There's plenty more," Merry assured Damrod. "The soldiers are carrying it to their wounded friends. But…"

"None were as bad as Garad," Pippin finished.

Aragorn staggered to his feet, glad of Legolas' helping hand. "Hannon-le, mellonin" he gave his friend's arm a grateful squeeze.

"You must care for yourself, also," Legolas said with soft concern.

"I will soon rest." Aragorn felt a smile spreading not only over his face but also through his heart. Eighty seven years he had lived and struggled with the dread of Mordor, of Isildur's Bane. Now, at last, truly, there would be time for rest.

He wanted to check Boromir and was very glad that he was not two paces away, still propped in his brother's arms. Aragorn smiled as he noted Boromir's left hand lay on Garad's chest, determined not to let go. Boromir would be fine, if they could keep him down. Aragorn knew he should go see to the other wounded. If he could only get his legs to obey his will. He had used all the energy he had for Garad.

"Pippin," he instructed. "See if you can feed a little of that water to Boromir. He will need its strength, and…," He gave the Man's brother a stern smile, "Be sure Faramir takes some, too."

Faramir opened his mouth to protest that he was all right, then as quickly closed it as he took in Aragorn's expression. "As you command, My King," he nodded, smiling.

"Enough of that, please," Aragorn said wryly," Just…" Beneath his boots the ground trembled once more and red light flared bright and wide above, painting every face gathered about him.

"The mountain!" Pippin cried, leaping to his feet in horror and pivoting toward Mordor.

"Frodo and Sam are still there!" Merry echoed his friend's distress.

_I have them. They live,_ Gandalf spoke with fierce elation in his mind, making Aragorn want to weep with relief and joy.

"Do not fear," Aragorn relayed in firm reassurance. "Gandalf has them. They will soon be here."

Whoosh-thump. Whoosh-thump. Wings. Giant wings, throwing small stones and dust onto his face despite someone – Faramir? – sheltering him.

"Nazgul!" Boromir struggled to move, his body heavy as stone, his stiff fingers trying to find his sword hilt.

"It's not Nazgul!" Faramir snapped from somewhere just above and behind him.

Boromir could feel the warmth of his brother's chest at his back, and was very glad of it. For some reason he was cold. Of course he was cold… Nazgul!

"Nazgul…" he insisted, cursing his weakness and trying ineffectively to push himself up to his feet. He forced his eyes open but at first could see nothing but swirling grey light. Why couldn't Faramir hear its wing-beats? Usually his brother had an annoying ability to smugly tell them what was approaching long before anyone else had heard it.

"It's eagles you hear. More have arrived and are flying off to join Gandalf and their friends. Now stay down or I'll smack you down!" Faramir's hands shoved against his shoulders and he had not the strength to resist. "Idiot." But at the same time, Boromir felt Faramir squeeze his shoulder with familiar exasperated relief and affection.

"Garad!" Boromir remembered with alarm. "Let me up, dammit! His arm…!"

"His arm is made whole by King Elessar," Damrod put in, sounding as if he could only believe it fully if he said it aloud.

"He'll be all right?" Boromir asked, trying to see for himself. Then he remembered, relief flooding him along with the memory of Aragorn's lean hands, the white light a brilliant halo of healing power, the blood no longer pulsing from the savagely raw wound.

"He will be if he behaves!"

"Garad behave?" Ciran huffed. "That'll be the day."

Boromir understood what the young Ranger was doing, having done it a time or twelve himself – assuring Garad would save his strength by pre-empting any quip he might otherwise have made.

"Elena will _make_ it the day," Faramir said firmly. "Slowly!" That last as he gave up and allowed Boromir to sit up and see his friend.

"Elena," Garad murmured, the barest whisper, the smile on his pale, blood-splattered face indicating he was more than happy to imagine Elena making him behave.

Boromir was very glad of that faint smile, reinforcing the relief that wavered as soon as his vision settled to see the terrible pallor and shadows of the Man's face. And the discarded tunic that was sticky and wet with old, congealing blood. They had lain him flat on several cushioning bedrolls, his head pillowed and his feet elevated. Another bedroll, spread with a clean white, blood flecked surgical sheet, had been placed beneath his carefully outstretched wounded right arm, on which Damrod was working. The familiar aroma of athelas came to him and he dragged his gaze from Garad to see a kettle of water bubbling over a campfire close by. Damrod's hands were scrupulously clean, Aragorn's likewise as he prepared the herbal tea.

"How's that stitching coming?" Aragorn asked.

"It would be going a lot faster if he wasn't jumping as nervously as a maiden on her wedding night."

"Wedding," Garad muttered. ".. gonna marry her."

Boromir couldn't quite manage to stand, but he did scoot to his friend's side to squeeze his good arm and say, "About bloody time."

Garad's lips twitched and an eyebrow quirked up at him. "Took you…" He ran out of breath and was too groggy as yet to meet Boromir's eyes. Boromir was simply relieved to have his friend among the living and conscious once more.

"… long enough with Liel," Faramir finished for him, as he too, moved closer.

Garad's wounded arm jumped suddenly, the fingers opening and closing spasmodically.

"Keep that arm steady, dammit, Ciran!" Damrod snapped.

"Sorry," Garad murmured.

"Not your fault," Damrod said gently, and touched Garad's face with his free hand. "Won't be much longer."

"No control over that until the nerves and the muscles finish rejoining," Aragorn put in, arriving with the tea, "And until the backwash of the power evens out."

Boromir's stomach rolled, at the reminder. "Oh, good," he said, his own voice sounding high and thin to his ears.

"Here," Aragorn said, holding the cup out to him. "Get this into you."

"Me? But, Garad…"

"Has already had two cups with a third in the making. Drink."

"Bleh!" Garad made a face.

That made Boromir grin. "You sure you don't' want mine?"

Two fingers of Garad's left hand told him what he thought of that offer. Boromir laughed abruptly, then, aware it was close to breaking to a sob, covered by taking a hasty mouthful of tea. He was glad that, as usual, Aragorn had made sure it was not too hot to be gulped. It was sweet, too, rich with honey taking away the worst of the herbal taste.

Faramir returned, wringing out a clean warm washcloth and sat crosslegged at Garad's side to begin gently washing the blood from the Man's face and hair.

"Thank you… mother," Garad said sarcastically, though Boromir well knew the ease such the soothing stroking would bring him, distracting him from the discomfit of the stitching. The Ent water athelas would dampen the pain but not erase it completely.

"You should save your strength," Aragorn advised, bending to hand more thread to Damrod. "Try not to talk."

Garad just rolled his eyes beseechingly up at Boromir. "How's it … look?" he asked as he caught Boromir daring to look at the wound.

"That scar is going to take some kissing," Boromir tried for a joking tone but didn't quite make it.

"Good." The word was barely audible. Even Garad's prodigious strength was drained, at least for now. He allowed his head to settle more heavily to the pillow and closed his eyes.

"He would not have been hurt but for saving my life. Again," Faramir said, resting his hand on the Man's damp brow for a moment. Garad weakly shook him off.

"I saw," Boromir said, giving his brother an intent look. "Cave troll."

Faramir returned his grave regard and added a wry smile. "I know, you hate those bastards."

"So – " Boromir nodded and heaved a great sigh, a release of tension, "remind me I owe Garad all the ale he can drink."

Garad opened his mouth to respond and Ciran saved him the effort. "There goes the treasury!"

Garad smiled approval, but was too weak for more. Boromir knew he could only be awake at all because of the residual strength fed into him during the Healing. When that wore off he'd be out like a light. The by-play helped settle Boromir's belief that they really had all come through the final battle alive.

"Just rest, now," Boromir said softly. He reached out and gripped Garad's bare left forearm again to say the rest without words. Damrod continued his painful work and Garad's face tightened over a flinch.

"Tea," Aragorn told Merry and Pippin who hurried off to the fire for more.

"Do you remember," Boromir asked in hopes of distracting his friend from the pain, "that standing order I gave you when we were what, sixteen?"

"You… fifteen," Garad corrected and Boromir knew just how badly off he was when he did not open his eyes.

"Get to it," Gimli grumped. "Let the lad pass out!"

"Well," Boromir finished. "When I said bring my brother back alive, I meant both of you."

Faramir continued stroking his friend's brow, erasing the lines of pain and easing the Man's breathing. He explained for Gimli's puzzlement, "Only sixteen, not even a Ranger yet, and already assigned as my personal mother-hen."

"Oh!" Gimli snorted. "I see." Then frowned, "But wait, Faramir, you would have been only..?"

"Ten," Boromir answered, warmed by the memory. "And one of the best shots in Minas Tirith even then. He and Garad made a pair, both of 'em madly in love with archery,"

"Well, they did as well as my friend Legolas, today," Gimli said.

"Indeed so," Legolas agreed, looking back over his shoulder from where he was standing looking toward Mount Doom.

Looking up at him, Boromir blinked frowned to find the landscape completely altered. "Did you move us back closer to the wagons?" But no, they wouldn't have moved Garad so soon if it could have been avoided. And, if they were at the rear, where were the horses, and the trees? "How long have I been out? What did I miss?"

"Oh, nothing much," Gimli grunted, one bushy eyebrow lowered in a conspiratorial wink to the Hobbits. "Just the destruction of Baradûr, the swallowing of the Black Gates by the soil of Gondor, the death of Sauron at the hands of your King, the final victory of the Great Alliance after several thousand years of striving… " Managing to keep a straight face over Boromir's growing astonishment, he asked, "Merry? Pippin? Did I forget anything? A lot happened fast."

Silent, worried for Frodo and Sam, they merely gave him half-hearted smiles.

Gimli looked back to Boromir. "As I said, nothing much."

"It's not funny, dammit!" Boromir growled. "I missed it!"

"You were the centerpiece," Aragorn declared, biting back a smile.

"Not me. It was all Gondor," Boromir said seriously.

"So it was." Aragorn dipped his head in solemn agreement and returned to tending Garad. Taking the steaming tin mug of athelas tea he knelt beside the Man, slipped his free hand behind his head, and held the flask to his lips. "Here," he said kindly as Garad stirred. "Drink. It will ease the pain."

Despite his earlier protests, Garad took one sip and then another and another. Boromir was glad to see a little colour return to his face.

"Tastes awful, but it works," Pippin said, Merry adding, "Makes you sleep, too."

Garad shook his head, evidently not liking that news.

"You must sleep," Faramir urged. "The stitching is done. As soon as you're bandaged we can get you into the wagon." He looked around. "Where is it anyway? Should have been here by now."

Garad managed to get his eyes open a crack. "Can't sleep. Miss it"

"Miss what?" Merry asked.

"Everything."

"Me, too," Boromir said, glumly, still trying to figure his surrounds. "Wait, if the wagons are coming to us, and we haven't been moved…. Where is …?"

"Dead," Gimli answered.

"Not the Orcs, _them_! The Black Gates!" Frustrated, and wondering just for a fleeting moment if he were dreaming, Boromir waved an arm toward the place where they had once stood. "It's not possible. They were immense. They can't just disappear."

"But they did," Pippin told him, sounding cheerful at last.

"You should have seen it!" Merry announced, unable to resist the teasing despite his ongoing worried scanning of the skies.

Boromir lurched to his feet, one dirty hand lifted to his equally dirty face to shade his eyes as he looked east. Only then did he realise the air was crystal clear, he could see much further, and too, he could breathe without having to chew the air first. It was no longer heavy and suffocating, but cool and fresh. "Where's the Eye? Where's Baradûr?"

"Gone," Legolas spoke up again, his lips twitching with mischief even though he was still fixed on watching the eastern sky.

"Gone! It can't be just _gone!" _Boromir swung back.

"It is," Gimli said concisely. "As I told you, Gondor ate it. And with a mighty burp."

Aragorn fed more of the hot tea to Garad, thus forcing him into silence. "You helped destroy the Ring, Boromir. What did you expect would happen after?" he asked, amused.

"A formal surrendering, and a handing over of the keys?" Faramir suggested, finally joining the banter as he noted Garad looked relaxed, no longer in so much pain.

"But… but.." Boromir spluttered. "The Eye is gone! It's all gone! And I missed it?"

Aragorn snorted, shook his head and asked the others, "How many times do you think we'll hear that?"

"Too many," Legolas said.

"I do not believe it," Garad put in during his healer's distraction, his voice the stronger for the medication.

"You don't believe what?" Gimli demanded.

"All my life and I missed it!"

"_We_ missed it," Boromir corrected grumpily, and sat down beside him again, as much because his legs would not hold him as anything.

"You got to see the Ring get the chop," Garad accused, over a huge yawn.

"If Baradûr collapsed, and everything was destroyed…" Suddenly very worried, Boromir lowered his voice and turned his head from Merry and Pippin to ask Aragorn and Faramir, "What happened to Mount Doom?" He dropped his voice to a whisper to say, "Frodo and Sam?"

"Gandalf tells me he has them," Aragorn assured quickly. "They are safe and on their way here."

"So, maybe, we should get some hot food and things ready for them," Merry suggested. He elbowed his cousin who was still frowning up at the eastern sky.

"I don't want to think how long it is since they've had any real food," Pippin agreed, turning to the task.

"Or water," Legolas said quietly. "All inside Mordor is fouled and poisonous."

"Then," Pippin frowned anxiously. "They must be…"

"Done in," Merry finished.

"At the very least," Gimli said.

"But happy," Boromir tried for a more positive tone.

"They destroyed Mordor," Legolas agreed, casting him an apologetic glance for having further worried the Hobbits.

"They're heroes!" Pippin perked up to announce.

"_Weary_ heroes," Aragorn said. Putting down the now empty tin mug, he smiled softly at a sleeping Garad. The Man's head lolled on the pillow as Aragorn gently withdrew his bracing hand. "But such is the lot of heroes. We must not press them. They will want to see us, but we must send them on to Minas Tirith with all haste."

Merry and Pippin exchanged grim looks. "Right. They'll need proper beds."

The air stirred and Legolas cried, "Eagles!"

Merry and Pippin craned to see, standing on tiptoe as if somehow they could get closer to their much-loved and long gone friends. "Where? I can't see them!"

"There!" Legolas bent down and pointed, directing their gazes with an outstretched arm.

"Oh!" Pippin cried, Merry immediately adding his own joyous exclamation, "I can see something coming closer!"

Boromir staggered up again with Faramir's assistance, his brother's arm tight about his shoulders.

Gradually, the eagles came more fully into sight, moving fast, strong and sure. They were massive yet incredibly graceful creatures, their wings curved, the feathers spread to catch the least current of the wind. They began circling effortlessly, spiraling down.

"But where are Frodo and Sam?" Pippin said, worried. "I think I can see Gandalf…"

"The white splotch is him, right?" Merry said, "But where are --?"

"The eagles are carrying them, Sam with the one on the left, Frodo the right," Legolas explained. "Look lower, they have them in their talons."

"Their talons!" Merry cried in alarm.

"Oh, be careful," Pippin whispered.

"They will not let them fall," Legolas assured.

"Do not fear," Aragorn said. "I have been carried by eagles in the same fashion when I was wounded and very young."

"You were?!" Pippin was so surprised that for a moment he actually looked away from his approaching friends.

Boromir, too, was impressed, giving his friend a quick glance. "Now that's a story I have to hear sometime over a long mug of ale."

"You shall have it," Aragorn said with a smile.

"_All _of it," Legolas promised.

"Well, I guess they didn't break you and you're a lot heavier," Pippin decided, "so Frodo and Sam should be all right." He gave a great exhalation of relief.

"They will be safe," Aragorn repeated.

Boromir, glancing down at Pippin, saw that, despite his words, the youngest Hobbit was squinting, almost afraid to look. Boromir moved closer and gripped Pippin's shoulder reassuringly but dizzy, he stumbled a little.

Faramir, enthralled by the returning eagles, nonetheless took time to cast him an exasperated glance. "Careful, or you'll pass out and miss this, too," he chided. "And I am _not_ listening to you bitch about it! Garad will be bad enough!"

Reminded, Boromir very carefully turned a little to look at his sleeping friend, "He will be so pissed about missing this!"

"Huh?" Garad said, stirring immediately as if summoned.

Boromir blinked, surprised that anything could wake someone so weak and hurt who had had so much Ent water fed to them. He shook off the thought that some remnant of power remained, preferring the conclusion that the flurry of dusty air had woken him despite Ciran and Damrod's thorough efforts in sheltering him.

Even half-conscious, Garad could not fail to see the giant forms against the bright sky.. "Naz…" he slurred in warning, trying to point.

"No!" Ciran yelped, gently but firmly holding Garad's shoulders down. The heavily bandaged right arm was now strapped firmly across Garad's chest. "Steady!"

"Not Nazgul," Damrod reassured. "Eagles."

"What the --?" Garad frowned at his heavily bandaged arm.

"You were wounded," Damrod reminded him, knowing he would be too groggy and dazed to remember immediately.

"I was?"

"And our King healed you," Ciran put in proudly.

"Me?"

"You," Boromir told him, amused and dragging his gaze from the eagles to look again at his disoriented friend. "Go back to sleep."

Garad gave him a very familiar not-bloody-likely, -you're-up-to -something look. He peered toward where the eagles were now very close. "Whoa! Big birds!"

"They've got Frodo and Sam," Pippin told the Man excitedly, not looking away.

"Huh?" Garad shook his head, trying to wake up completely despite Damrod's efforts to have him settle.

"Are they all right?" Merry asked Aragorn.

"They will be," Aragorn assured. "Though Gandalf is worried for their extreme exhaustion."

"Keep still, dammit!" Damrod growled, gently but firmly pressing against Garad's chest "You'll tear the stitches!"

"Took him forever to sew you back together," Ciran told his friend with a grin. "You don't want to spoil his embroidery."

"But it's Frodo and Sam!" Garad complained.

"If you keep jumping about like this you'll pass out again, you great idiot," Ciran told him, urging him down.

"Here, Ciran," Damrod said in an aggrieved tone, "No point arguing when he's like this. Help me sit him up a little more brace him against you. Carefully!"

"Ohhh," Garad moaned, and with his free hand reached unsteadily for his head. He looked more than a little green and clamped his eyes shut. "Gonna be sick."

"Not on me you're not!" Ciran yelped.

"Your fault," Garad groaned. "It's your swill."

"You haven't been drinking!" Ciran said indignantly. "And my stuff is not swill! Just ask those Riders back there, can't you hear 'em singing?"

"Frodo! Sam!" Merry and Pippin cried, taking off at a sprint as soon as the dust had settled and the birds had carefully sat their friends on the ground. Gandalf alighted quickly to bend over them, and urge, "Stay still!"

"Where are they?" Garad asked.

Damrod said, "Look, there, straight ahead."

Boromir wanted badly to hurry after Merry and Pippin and get closer as were Aragorn and the others, but his legs didn't seem to want to carry him. He was grateful for the support of Faramir's shoulder.

The two eagles had landed as lightly as morning dew on the grass though all their weight rested on one claw alone, and the leader also carried Gandalf on his back. The birds were almost as big as the beasts on which rode the Nazgul. _Had ridden_ the Nazgul, Boromir corrected silently, wondering at this new reality, the new freedom and joy that was only just beginning to truly sink in. He looked then at Faramir, trying to make himself believe that he would never again have to fear that his brother was standing on some battlement or other, bow in hand, waiting for his one chance as the cursed thing swooped at him.

Sauron was gone. The Ring was gone.

"_I will take it. Though… I do not know the way."_

Frodo's words at the Council. Boromir had never witnessed greater courage, and he had seen a lot in several decades of war. And he's done it. He and Sam, together, every step of the way from Hobbiton to the other side of the world, into the very fires of Mordor.

It should not have been possible.

"Not with ten thousand Men could you do this thing."

"What?" Faramir asked, distracted.

"Not with an army of ten thousand," Boromir repeated. "That's what I told the Council at Imladris."

Faramir drew a deep breath and turned to him. "You were right." Then he smiled wryly. "But sometimes the few, quiet and cunning, can achieve what many could not."

Boromir rolled his eyes. "Right, right, same old Ranger bullshit. Heard it before."

"Still just as true," Faramir countered, pulling Boromir's arm more securely over his shoulder as he tripped a little. "And if you don't want to fall flat on your face before we can get there, walk in step, dammit!"

Merry and Pippin were already hugging their seated cousins amid much sobbing and laughter. Boromir could hear Gandalf's admonition to them to be careful, but even the wizard could not hold back a great smile of joy for the long-awaited reunion.

"Here drink!" their cousins urged, holding Ent water flasks to their friend's bleeding lips. Merry supported Frodo, and Pippin Sam, against their shoulders.

Aragorn joined Gandalf's examination of their burns, bruises, cuts and scratches, having to prod Merry and Pippin aside at times to do it. Aragorn had set water and salve at his side, already beginning to bathe and tend the worst wounds, Legolas and Gimli helping him.

Boromir could barely hear Frodo and Sam's rasping voices as they attempted greetings. Their throats would be raw after so much smoke and heat. They had moved on sheer will for so long, and had nothing left in reserve.

"How bad?" Boromir asked as he got closer.

"Boromir?" Frodo asked.

Then suddenly he was looking direct into Frodo's bleary blue eyes and he wanted to weep for all the shadows he saw there, dark beyond any of their imaginings. This was not the Frodo of Imladris. The enemy had had him captive at some stage, that Boromir knew, for he would not have abandoned his mithril shirt. The old protective shield slammed into place in Boromir's mind, he would not allow images of the kinds of torture he knew so well. No dark memories would cloud the triumph and joy of this reunion.

Frodo weeping, unsure asked, "We're all here?"

Boromir tried to answer but found his throat too tight for words. He could only nod and smile through his own tears.

"Yes, Frodo," Gandalf answered, even he having to clear his throat to say it . "The Fellowship is whole again!"

"But the Orcs … at the lake!" Sam said, accepting more Ent water from Merry as Pippin fed some to Frodo. "How did you…?"

"We escaped!" Pippin announced smugly.

"And we rescued Boromir!" Merry added even more smugly.

Sam blinked astonishment, looking up at Boromir in disbelief.

"They did," Boromir said, and with Faramir's assistance managed to crouch at their side. "And you and Frodo did what none other could. The Shire has saved us all."

Boromir had seen them both in Link and was prepared for their appearance but not for the shocking emaciation, the bones sticking through the bruised flesh beneath his gentle grip. Frodo had never been strongly built, but the Frodo who had stood before the Council was a plough horse by comparison to he who returned from Mordor.

He turned from Sam to again meet Frodo's eyes, finding he had not stopped looking at him as if unable to believe his eyes. Boromir remembered then that Frodo had believed him a ghost when he'd first called to him in the mountain.

"Frodo." It was all Boromir could find to say. Frodo reached out terribly thin arms and Boromir made to take his hands, then seeing them burned, instead drew him carefully into hug against his chest.

"Faramir!" Sam greeted.

"You did it," Faramir offered the duo but seemed equally overcome.

"Where's Garad?" Sam asked.

"Hopefully, sleeping it off," Boromir said with a wink of reassurance as he drew back, feeling a grin beginning to spread from ear to ear at the tangible victory in his arms. They were back! Frodo and Sam were safe! All of Middle Earth was safe! They could go home at last!

"Sleeping?" Frodo echoed, assured by the smile, but still puzzled.

"Garad's a hero," Pippin informed them. Then added very deliberately, "Just like you and Sam."

"He was wounded pretty badly at first," Merry told them. "But he's going to be fine, thanks to Strider."

"He wants to see you," Damrod said, arriving to stand over them, smiling. "So I came over to say hello for him."

"Damrod!" Sam, called, "Where's Ciran?"

"Over there with Garad," Damrod indicated, standing aside.

Both Sam and Frodo craned to see, Merry and Pippin helping them. Boromir followed their gazes, not surprised to see that, braced against Ciran's chest Garad, had managed to lift his left arm in a victory salute. Ciran's discreet support made the bravado possible.

"He says not to worry he'll make sure the ale's cold whenever you're ready," Damrod said.

"He looks near as bad as Master Frodo!" Sam cried in dismay, his instinctive attempt to rise lasting only a moment before he collapsed back into Merry's arms.

"Look who's talking," Merry said, kindly. "You should rest now, Sam."

"Frodo is safe," Pippin said. "Everyone is safe."

"Indeed," Aragorn confirmed. "You must rest. No more talk."

"Legolas," Gandalf said, "if you would help me, I think Gwaihir and his friend are ready."

"Come, Frodo. It is time we got you home," Aragorn said.

Aragorn swept Frodo up into his arms, barely conscious, drifting to sleep already. Legolas doing the same with Sam. And the next they knew a great cheer rose from every throat, thousands of voices, all calling, "Frodo! Sam!"

"Plenty of time for speeches later, lads," Gimli said gruffly. "For now it's time we our friends home."

"Home?" Sam murmured wistfully, his head resting against Legolas' shoulder.

"Boromir's city will be home for now," Aragorn said.

"_Our_ city," Boromir corrected with a smile as Faramir helped him back to his feet.

"Our city it is," Aragorn with a laugh.

"I'm glad you two got that square at last," Sam grumbled and promptly fell asleep.


	26. Chapter 23

Chapter 23 – the real one, at last!

A/N – sorry about the mix up and the delay.

The door opened and Liel and Elena entered, an older, limping man behind them, carrying carpentry tools. Liel carried Liramir who gurgled happily in her arms. Boromir stood, eager to catch his first glimpse today of his daughter.

Liel tipped the bundle in her arms a little, proudly displaying her so he could see her wispy red curls, her delicately boned face and blurry blue eyes. Boromir stood, but had to grab Aragorn's arm to keep his balance.

"Don't move. We'll sit with you," Liel said.

Aragorn unobtrusively assisted his re-seating. He gave Liel a polite little bow of the head even as he edged his way toward delayed escape. "I'll go find Legolas and Gimli. If we're to have a war conference, they'll want to be here, too."

"They've been summoned," Liel told him with a warm smile as she sat down close by Boromir. She gave Aragorn a nod of her own, toward the chair close by the bed she would normally have used for nursing. Aragorn did as she bid, his hands uneasy on his knees as he looked away from her adjusting her shawl to cover the un-swaddled baby she was bringing to her breast.

Boromir put one arm about Liel and settled his free hand on one of Liramir's pink feet and gave her a gentle tickle.

"Umm," Aragorn said and Boromir was amused to see he looked a little embarrassed.

"Strider?" Merry called from his bed across the open area. He fidgeted with the bandage sling "Can you help me with this? I can't get it comfortable."

"Coming," Aragorn said with evident relief.

"Strider?" Liel asked Boromir.

"One of his many names."

"He has the legs for it," she muttered quietly, loud enough for his ears only.

"Noticed already, eh?" Boromir murmured, kissing the edge of her ear through her hair, rubbing the small of her back through the shawl.

"After that entrance onto the Pelennor? Every maiden and half the matrons in the City are swooning over him." She sighed, and he felt her begin to relax under his hand.

"Tell them they'll get no help dusting themselves off."

"Spoken for," she yawned, nodding in understanding.

He stroked down her braid, bringing the crown of her head to rest against his chin and jaw. A glance assured him their babe was held securely by her braced arm and lap. With his free hand, he tucked the shawl between the cradling arm and the legs it rested on, making their little one even more secure.

"Rest now," he told her. "You have laboured while I slept."

She muttered something, but her eyes were closing even as she did so. Boromir kissed the side of her leaning head, then looked up as the door opened yet again to reveal Beth.

"Ahh, food!" he said.

"My name is Beth, not, 'ah food'," she told him primly. She added a nod of her head and a 'My Lord' as an afterthought.

She approached the table, several baskets balanced in her arms. Other ladies followed, all wearing white aprons and caps and all carrying platters of steaming soup or pastries and baskets full of pies. "I am glad to see you awake and hungry, My Lord. You frightened us all badly last night. You must learn to rest before you fall down!"

"That's what I've been trying to tell him, Beth," Garad said, earnestly. "Do you have any more of those meat pies?"

"Look who's talking," Boromir threw back at him, glancing down at Liel as her head nodded.

"Is Faramir still asleep?" Beth asked, worried.

"I am about to wake him," Gandalf said, startling Boromir as he again seemed to appear from nowhere to stand in the room. "He needs to eat. Boromir, would you care to assist me?"

With deep breath and much blinking, Liel brought herself back to full waking.

"Go," she yawned. "We'll be here a while."

"Coming." Boromir stood, steadying himself Liel's shoulder. Aragorn looked up, torn between helping Boromir or Merry. Gandalf made the choice for him, taking Boromir's arm and guiding him toward Faramir's alcove.

"He'd never forgive me if I let him sleep through our plans to ride out," Boromir said. "Or his niece, or Beth's pies."

"Ride out? You intend to distract Sauron's armies from Frodo's path."

"Yes. It is all we can give him."

Gandalf nodded. At the bedside he left Boromir to steady himself on the bedpost. Bending, the Wizard touched a hand to Faramir's brow, called softly to him. Faramir stirred immediately. Opening his eyes, he yawned and stretched, making Boromir smile as he appeared so child-like, so fresh. No worry yet darkened his eyes. That brought sadness to chase away the smile.

"There," Gandalf said. "Much better."

"Gandalf?" Faramir said. "What – ?"

"You took a little nap," Boromir explained. "Before dinner. Beth is waiting for us by the table."

"Oh, good, I'm hungry. Where's my trousers?"

"Hiding with mine, I suspect."

"Here," Gandalf seemed to produce them by magic. He waved his hand toward two bundles on the bedside table. Boromir was sure the clothing had not been there before.

"Eomer comes," Gandalf said, dryly. "He might feel strange being the only one of you dressed for a Council of War."

"What?" Faramir asked.

"I asked him to attend to discuss ways we may yet aid Frodo and Sam," Boromir explained. He sat on the foot of the bed, then reached for his trousers.

"Boromir…." Faramir said, his voice hesitant.

Boromir shook his head. "No word from Dol Amroth, but it is early yet. The chance of stragglers from the battle would delay us from sending a messenger as much as it would Imrahil."

Faramir nodded, accepting the answer for the moment, and picked up his own trousers.

When he was dressed, having done a lot of cursing with the effort it took to pull on his boots, he turned about to find Gandalf again mysteriously vanished. Faramir's pallor had altered to a sickly green as, finished with his own boots, he stood a little too fast.

"Steady, brother," Boromir said, deciding their sleep tunics would serve well enough for the coming conference. "Lean on me."

"So we can fall down together?"

Boromir found that funny. "Why not? We've done it before."

"We were drunk."

"Not every time," Boromir corrected. "There was that one time – "

"Oh, right," Faramir grinned, warming Boromir's heart for the task ahead. "We both took arrows, me in the arm, you in the ass."

"It hurt," Boromir said with exaggerated dignity, remembering how he had been teased. Faramir laughed at his expression and Boromir was glad. "Come, together we stand. Lean on me."

"I tell you I can walk, brother," Faramir said and at the same moment a woman's voice complained, "Put me down. I can walk, brother."

Faramir's chin came up, his eyes finding the owner of the voice. It was Eowyn, Boromir saw, cradled protectively in Eomer's arms as he stood in the open doorway. Bracing Faramir, Boromir felt something indefinable blaze through his brother, and he remembered the radiant joy that had lit Faramir's expression on the battlefield when he had first seen Eowyn.

Boromir looked from the one to the other, saw Eowyn seemed incapable of looking away from Faramir's gaze, each was entranced by the other. Boromir grinned seeing his brother and Rohan's Shieldmaiden wore identical bashful smiles.

'Oh ho, this is interesting!' Perhaps the Ladies of Gondor were about to lose yet another eligible bachelor from their clutches. Eomer broke the spell, asking whether Eowyn wanted to sit at the table or rest on one of the beds.

"The table", she told him tersely, and Boromir snorted. It was the exact same frustrated-with-the-dumb brother tone that Faramir would have used. Boromir heard Liel say something to Elena and Beth. He looked toward them, saw they were thinking what he was.

'Even more interesting. Back off, Boromir, and leave it to the experts, he told himself. Liramir would indeed have cousins, lots of them. As for the Ladies of Gondor, well…. They had the fields of Arnor and Rohan to romp in, after all. He trusted them to make hay there come rain or shine, fair enough recompense for having to leave Aragorn alone.

Seeing Faramir take his place at the table across from Eowyn, Boromir returned to the bed, sitting down next to his wife and daughter. Liel's nodding head was excuse enough to take the weight off his leg, and give Eowyn and Faramir some precious time to think of nothing more than the smiles they were sharing before the talk must turn to war and death.

Boromir brought Liel gently up against him, drawing her head down onto his shoulder. She was asleep almost immediately. Boromir shifted to make her more comfortable, wrapping his arm about her back and holding her close against his side. He tilted his head closer and pulled the edge of the shawl out to check on Liramir's progress. She was no longer suckling, one tiny hand patting at her mother's breast while the other was shoved into her mouth.

"I think you're done," Boromir told his daughter with a fond smile. "And only Dada gets to play with that."

"Aragorn?" Boromir called, seeing that the other Man was trying to fade into the walls again. "Lend me a hand here, would you?"

"Of course," Aragorn replied, eyeing the situation somewhat dubiously.

"Take the baby," Boromir instructed, putting his wife back into her bodice before pulling the shawl from under her arm to allow Aragorn to take Liramir. His lady shifted, stirring.

"Hush," Boromir said, kissing her forehead. "Uncle Aragorn has her."

Liel immediately settled back into her doze. Turning to Aragorn, he grinned at the startled expression he found on the other Man's face.

"No throwing up your king," he instructed his daughter. "That's probably the only clean tunic he has!"

"And it's borrowed," Aragorn added, shifting the baby to one arm to accept the generous towel Boromir took from Liel's shoulder to hand to him.

"Do you know how to burp a baby?" Boromir asked with some amusement.

"Oh, I've done it once or twice," Aragorn answered, all his attention on the cooing, burbling enchantress he was bringing to his protected shoulder.

"Try the flaky ones," Faramir said, and it took Boromir a moment to realize his brother had plucked up the courage to actually say something to Eowyn. A quick glance saw that Elena and Garad had managed to pull Eomer a few steps from his sister's side by virtue of asking his opinion of the maps brought to discuss the campaign, giving Faramir room to work.

"I'm not very hungry," she confided.

"I know," Faramir told her, nonetheless placing one of the pies on a waiting plate. "But you must eat, to regain your strength." He picked up a mug, one of the small ones brought for the Hobbits, and filled it half full with warm soup, managing the ladle with enviable finesse.

"Here," he instructed, with a firm, concerned air Boromir knew well. "Drink this, and I promise your appetite will return."

"Beer will do the same," she told him, but as he placed the mug down in front of her she reached out for it. Their fingers touched, and Boromir watched blushes that had nothing to do with modesty colour both of their faces.

"So it will," Faramir murmured, taking his hand from hers only long enough to pour a delicate goblet full of beer from the closest of the many pitchers scattered around the table. He held it out to her, though mindful of her injury, he kept its base firmly on the table.

Her fingers found his again, but not to take the cup he offered. Instead, she took his hand in her good one, studying the still darkened fingers with a frown. "You are injured, Lord."

"It's nothing," Faramir replied, with his best nonchalant air. "It's you who are injured, Lady."

"A broken arm," she said, with a shake of her head. "Not a true wound of battle."

Faramir snorted. He put some effort into it, Boromir noted, and it not only got Eowyn's attention, it made her smile.

"I was there, Lady. I saw the wounds you took – and the wounds you dealt. I owe you a debt I cannot repay, for the Witch King has long stalked my brother. I have killed his mounts several times, but I could never harm him…."

The truth of what he was saying silenced Faramir, and he dropped his gaze, rubbing his chin with his free hand to school his features.

Eowyn smiled and she gently pressed the fingers she held. "You are Dithen," she said.

Faramir turned beet red, and Boromir winced. "Little One" was an old, old nickname he had foolishly let slip in Theodred's hearing, and he could well understand it was not one his brother would care to hear from the lips of a lady fair.

"My name is – "

"Faramir," she interrupted. "I have heard all of Rohan cheer it."

Somehow, Faramir's blush deepened, but he rose to the occasion beautifully, lifting Eowyn's hand to bend his head over it, all without ever taking his gaze from hers.

"You shall hear Gondor cheer yours, Eowyn Wraithbane."

It was her turn to blush, and lower her eyes to look at the table.

"I would not have your soup get cold," Faramir reminded her, releasing her hand with the gentlest of pressure from his fingers, keeping his possessive thumb well away from touching her knuckles.

With another shy little smile, she indulged him by taking up a spoon from its waiting pile and having a few sips of soup before reaching for the beer. Boromir shot a glance at Aragorn, wondering if the other Man had noticed the beginnings of something his gut told him was much, much more than gallant flirtation. He found Aragorn to be oblivious to anything other than the child in his arms, replying to her gurgling in a sing-song whisper of Elvish.

Something moving near the door caught Boromir's eye. A very young soldier hovered there, nervously peering inside but uncertain of how to announce his presence. The youngster was wearing the livery of the Tower Guard and his chest rose and fell in a heaving sigh of relief as finally he caught his commander's eye.

"Sir?" he called hesitantly, still not daring to cross the threshold. His voice broke on the single word, revealing he was just coming into manhood, still just a boy. Given who was assembled inside, Boromir couldn't fault him for his trepidation. He shook his head and grinned, imagining the effect if Aragorn had been wearing full regalia rather than a simple borrowed tunic and rocking a baby to sleep, singing softly to her.

Boromir fought down the urge to tell the youngster to come in and swear fealty to his king, just to see the look on Aragorn's face. Not to mention the boy's reaction…. He would no doubt spend the rest of his life relating this story. Boromir frowned, hoping there would be many years ahead for him. The frown was a bad move, making the boy swallow hard and take a half step backward.

"Come in," Boromir said, with a friendly smile. He lay Liel's head back down on the pillow so he could stand. Then he bent to pick up her lower body and stretch her out properly on the bed. The strain on the leg wound he had so badly jarred in yesterday's battle had him wonder if he might not break a tooth as he clenched his jaws hard to hold back a groan that would surely have alerted every mother hen in the room.

"Sir," the boy said again as he straightened. Boromir sighed. Raw recruits seemed to start every sentence with 'Sir'. He entered and came to a crisp attention and saluted a bare pace from Boromir, apparently finding him the most familiar if not the safest person in the room.

"Stand down, son. What's your name?"

"Claurion." Pause. "Sir."

Boromir sighed a second time. "Are you hungry?"

He waved a hand at the laden table with its steaming tureens of soup and mounds of savory pies and sweets. Claurion, still rigid nonetheless managed to loosen up enough to turn his head. His blue eyes rounded and he had to swallow to keep from drooling.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"That's enough of the sirs for now, Claurion," Boromir said heavily.

"Yes, sir!" the boy flushed, "I mean, umm, Captain, umm, My Lord Steward?"

"Over lunch it's Boromir."

Disregarding an amused snort from Garad who was enjoying the show from his front row armchair view with his bandaged foot prominently on display, Boromir took the boy by the arm and urged him toward the table. Claurion almost tripped over his feet, staring at Garad, the Rugged Ranger Captain, The Wounded Hero enjoying the lavish attention due his courage as Elena cuddled at his side. Boromir smirked a little, wondering if Claurion would be so awe-struck in Boromir's presence if he knew how Garad had come by the head injury, at least. He watched, amused, as the boy's nervous regard swept quickly over all present, everyone preoccupied with one thing or another.

Boromir doubted Aragorn would notice anything short of a cave troll entering, so entranced was he by Liramir. Boromir smiled and found he himself had trouble looking away from his daughter who was blinking and cooing up at her king.

Faramir and Eowyn were equally rapt, caught by the other's eyes and hanging on every word, every glance.

Eomer was the only truly stern military-looking presence as he brooded over the maps spread over a cramped corner of the table where plates and trays had been shoved aside. He was, however, eating, chewing on a savory pie that dropped crumbs and gravy on the parchment. Eomer blotted up the stains with a napkin handed to him by Gandalf.

Claurion's gaze settled on Merry and Pippin and at last the boy's uneasy expression softened into a smile. Pippin, his cheeks bulging with the two kinds of sweet pastry he was eating, waved a hand and pointed at the pies. Merry grinned cheerful greeting and swatted Pippin's hand away from taking more food.

"Best eat, my friend," Merry called. "There are two hungry hobbits present!"

Boromir laughed and went to the table to sit down next to Faramir and pile some food on a plate for the boy. To Merry he said, "I am glad to see you well enough to be hungry." Merry said something garbled for his full mouth, that Boromir thought was 'Me too."

"Sit," Boromir told the boy.

"But, sir, I mean… Captain…." that seemed the most informal Claurion could manage. He flushed and dipped his head toward Eowyn, the seat close at her side was the only vacant spot.

"She won't bite," Gandalf put in tersely, making the boy jump as if he had been addressed by one of the Valar. Eowyn gave him an encouraging smile, which slightly reassured Claurion and thoroughly charmed Faramir.

"Ahh, thank you, but could I, that is, may I, please… I have an urgent message."

"Urgent?" Boromir snapped.

"Yes, sir, Captain, uh, Boromir. Umm, no one else would, I was delegated to come here and tell you because they….They said you will think it a joke, but it's not, I swear, it's real! They're real, I mean…."

"Claurion?"

"Sir?"

"A deep breath, in, out," Boromir advised and the boy obeyed.

"Garad," Boromir growled warning and the Ranger managed to choke off his laughter. Merry and Pippin too were engrossed in the impromptu entertainment.

"Good," Boromir told Claurion. "Now, tell me, straight and simple."

"If you say so, Sir Boromir."

Garad snorted and Boromir flicked a bread roll at him. Claurion looked down at his boots, his face reddening as he blurted out, "There are two, umm, trees, walking toward the city gates." After a long pause he added. "Sir."

"Are they carrying anything?" Boromir demanded.

Claurion dared to looked up. "Sir?"

"The trees, Man, the trees – are they carrying anything?"

"Yes, Sir. Captain. Lord Boromir. Captain Aradan has the watch. He was worried that the trees might be enemies carrying weapons. They have something in their uhh, arms, that looks like big barrels, and more strapped to their, er… backs."

"Yes!" Boromir stood, grinning jubilantly. "The Ents are here!"

"Ents?" Claurion blinked. "But that's a… a children's story!"

"They said the same about the High King, and yet he stands before you!" Boromir laughed, indicating Aragorn.

The boy turned his gaze to where Aragorn was worrying a gentle knuckle on Liramir's chin, the Ring of Barahir gleaming with the sheen of baby drool. Claurion gulped again, but the shine Boromir had been hoping for came into his eyes.

"They're very nice when you get to know them," Pippin took time out from eating to explain. The boy turned to him, blinking some more.

"Claurion?" Boromir commanded. With the boy's attention again fixed on him, he said, "Take my spot. Eat my share. I'm going to greet them."

"There's still time to eat, Sir Captain," Claurion stammered. "They've only just passed the Ramas Echor. They're big trees…. Er, Ents, Sir Boromir, you can see them from a long way off."

"The Ents are here?" Finally Faramir's attention had been won.

"They said they would come," Merry pointed out.

"But not when. Knowing them, it could be for Liramir's twenty-first birthday," Boromir grumped, but he settled back onto his seat gingerly, his leg trembling with the strain. He was secretly glad he would indeed have time to appease his rumbling stomach.

"Barrels?" Merry exclaimed. He and Pippin slapped each other's shoulders in celebration. "They brought the water?"

"Water? Then it's not…." Claurion said. "I mean, we were told about the explosion at Helms Deep, Orcs dropping flame onto a barrel of something they emptied out under the Deeping Wall. The Captain wanted to send word, though he didn't want to disturb your rest, Sir."

Boromir shook his head. "Aradan is on duty? He did the work of ten Men in the battle yesterday. I gave orders he was to take the day off…." It was his turn to blink, as his memory turned to a foggy jumble of images without any particular relation to one another. "Didn't I…?"

"He was, Si – Boromir. But he heard word that something strange was coming across the Pelennor and – "

"I see," Boromir cut him short.

"Eat," Faramir commanded, raising an eyebrow sternly at Boromir. "You're fading."

"I am?" Boromir blinked at his brother and realized it was true. Faramir's face was blurring and spinning edged with black dots in his vision. It would be most embarrassing to faint right now, Boromir decided, and grabbed a meat pie and took a bite.

It was such a wonderful sensation after so long without that he found it difficult to concentrate on anything else for a moment. Faramir and Eowyn didn't help, doing a tag-team on him, he filling a tankard with beer and she pushing a full plate across the table to Boromir.

The beer tasted so good that it was all Boromir could do to restrain himself from issuing a pleasured sound that had he been beside her would have been sure to wake Liel from her slumber, no doubt with her usual offer of assistance. Boromir grinned at the thought and wondered how much more time he could take off duty today.

Eomer tapped the map and looked up and around in a fashion that needed no words to remind them all that they had been called to a Council of War.

Boromir's smile faded, not much time to be had at all, it appeared. He definitely had to find a Lady or three of the Court to take some interest in the First Marshal of the Riddermark.

"Get some food into you," he told Claurion. "And get back out there and tell Aradan all is well, and he should get back to rest where he's supposed to be."

"Yes, sir!" the boy saluted, smashing the pie into his forehead.

Only years of practice kept Boromir from laughing as the youngster regarded the ruin of his treat with utter dismay.

"Here," Pippin said. "A whole plate full. Throw that one away."

Boromir turned to Eomer, "Right. We need to take the most visible approach this time. Legolas can scout… Where is he, anyway? And Gimli?"

"Ents," Merry reminded.

"He loves talking to them," Pippin continued.

"I hope he told Gimli not to take his axe out there."

Boromir nodded and was glad when Faramir pushed the map toward him, saving him trying to get up and go to Eomer.

"She's asleep," Aragorn said, coming up next to him, half his attention on the babe he held, and half his attention on the map.

Boromir pushed hard on the table, ready to prop himself up again, wincing with the effort.

"Sit," Faramir snapped. "I'm sure our King can handle putting a baby to bed."

"And he doesn't have a wounded leg," Eowyn finished.

Boromir managed a polite smile as he sat down again, but privately he was beginning to see a very hen-pecked future, indeed. Faramir had found the perfect ally. His Little Brother and Eowyn, his oft-named Little Sister, were scarily of one mind. Eomer had seen the exchange, Boromir noted, registering the Man's amused and rather approving smirk.

Aragorn returned from putting Liramir down in the crib by her parent's bed, still wearing a smile Boromir had never before seen on his face. He wasn't sure how to label it, but guessed it could only be called avuncular. Boromir clapped him on the back as Aragorn bent to the map. He no longer seemed quite so alone.

Soon, all were engrossed in plans for making Sauron imagine the army coming at him was much more worthy of his attention than a ragged band of survivors might otherwise merit.

"Good thing for you, that Ent water arrived when it did," Boromir mused, looking over at Garad.

"Why?"

Elena tugged his hair. "You can't walk, dummy."

"So? I can still ride a horse… and shoot a bow, a damn sight better than most."

That last comment had been aimed squarely at him, Boromir realized.

"We won't be fighting from horseback," Boromir reminded the big Ranger.

"Use the horse to get there," Garad replied, unperturbed. "Once we get there, I'll stand behind you idiots in the shield wall. No running necessary."

Boromir shook his head.

"I go where my Captain goes," Garad said, not a trace of jocularity in his manner now. "My Lord."

"The point is moot," Aragorn said with his quiet firmness. "Thanks to the Ents, all who wish to try the Black Gates may."

It was a sobering thought, quieting the company.

"You must be there," Boromir lifted his mug to Garad in salute. "I would have it no other way. Faramir deserves the best." He smiled as Garad flushed at the honest praise. "So, as I said, I am most glad the Ents are here." He snorted. "We can all use some patching up, myself included."

Garad returned the salute, and Boromir let the enticing smells of the food chase his gloom away. There would be time enough to worry about the Black Gates later, but Beth's pies had waited long enough for his attention, and so had his stomach

"But," Pippin put in, "You lot are already too tall! Best be careful how much you drink!"

"It made you taller?" Garad asked, with the clear message that he could not imagine his Hobbit friends as being any shorter.

"It did," Pippin said proudly. "Though I've always been taller than Merry."

"Have not," Merry snorted.

"So," Eomer said heavily, "We're agreed on the north east road through Ithilien?"

"Yes," Boromir said, turning back to the map, "Faramir will know where best to set out scouts."

"This tree…. Water, " Eomer said hesitantly, "It truly heals wounds rapidly?"

"It does." Faramir said, holding out his hands. "My fingers were badly broken but a few days ago."

"Oh?" Eowyn said pointedly.

Faramir flushed and smiled at her, wriggling his fingers. "Nothing of importance."

Eowyn raised an eyebrow that told Boromir she was letting the matter rest only for the moment. She would want all the details, later. Boromir determined he would be somewhere else when that happened.

"Then…?" Eomer prompted.

"Of course, there is enough for all," Boromir assured. "Shadow wounds and broken bones take a little longer to regain complete strength, but the Lady Eowyn's arm should be fully healed before the week is out."

"I would be most grateful," Eowyn dipped her chin in acknowledgment to Boromir. "One day with this arm an annoyingly useless package is enough for me."

Boromir snorted. "I know the feeling!" With that decided, he at last took one of the pies from the basket. For long, blissful minutes, the only thing in his world was the melting of flaking butter pastry against the roof of his mouth and the rich flavor of mushrooms and onions and beef in savory gravy, all washed down by the dark mellowness of a winter's smooth ale.

Finally, his stomach was full, and he sat back in his chair with a happy sigh. If truth be told, it was over-full, and he felt the pleasant torpor of digestion tugging his eyes closed.

"There you are!" he heard Aragorn say, and he sat straight up straight, rubbing his hand over his face. Blinking and yawning, he saw Legolas and Gimli had at last arrived, filling the doorway. Aragorn stood at the end of the table, facing them.

"Are the Ents arrived?" Aragorn asked, when the two made no move to enter the room, despite the food and the beer and the wine and the places waiting for them.

"Presently," Legolas said, and Boromir frowned at the unholy twinkle in the Elves eyes. He might have credited it to the proximity of the Ents, if Gimli's dark eyes had not held a matching sparkle. These two were up to something….

"But in the meantime…." Gimli said.

"…we have a surprise for you," Legolas finished, and Boromir had to smile at how much they sounded like Merry and Pippin. Gimli went left, Legolas went right, and despite his leg, Boromir rose to his feet as Arwen was revealed standing behind them, the dirt of hard traveling on her face and a shirt of Mithril rings under her grey cloak.

Aragorn gasped like a Man taking a gut-punch, and Arwen's smile trembled on her face as if uncertain of her welcome. A moment later, Aragorn was taking her in his, all uncertainty finally gone for both of them.

"Mir…?" Faramir asked, coming to his feet and Boromir realized he was crying.

"It's all right," he said, thinking it a stupid thing to say. Of course it was all right, how could it not be? Any fool could see the two belonged together, but there was something more in this, something like the rising of a tide strong enough to raise the mightiest of ships.

A moment later, he was clutching Faramir in turn, as behind Arwen came her father and her twin brothers, and behind them, Celeborn and another Elf he didn't know, but who was enough like Legolas he had to be Thranduil, King of Mirkwood. They came as quietly as a breeze into the room, and behind them….

"Uncle!" Faramir cried, torn between supporting Boromir and his desire to go right over the table to get to the weary Man limping into the room behind the Elves. Boromir gave Faramir permission with a shove that was half a boost. One step on the table was all that was needed to land Faramir in Imrahil's arms, their laughing relief at finding each other alive perilously close to tears.

Their cousins were behind their father and pushed Faramir and Imrahil into the room, filling it with their laughing greetings rather than crowding it. Boromir's grin grew wider to see Faramir pulling their Uncle into the room toward Eowyn to introduce them, even before demanding an explanation for the Elves that yesterday would have been all his delight.

There was one more surprise waiting in the hall, grinning in all his irritating beauty.

"Long Ears!" Boromir bellowed, his fist hitting the table in plate and cup rattling triumph. "You're too late, damn it! You've missed all the fun!"

Faramir left off his laughing reunion with his uncle to stare aghast at his brother.

"Not I, Round Ears," Glorfindel replied. Faramir snorted and relaxed, exchanging a roll of eyes with Garad and Boromir realised his brother would surely have heard the tale from Frodo and Sam. In detail. Glorfindel made his way into the room and around the oblivious Aragorn and Arwen to extend his arm to Boromir. "While you've been taking your ease behind these great walls, I've been doing real work with our cousins in Dol Amroth!"

Laughing, Boromir grappled the radiant creature into a hug, grateful for the strength he found there. Cheering, Merry and Pippin threw their arms around them both, mindful of Boromir's wounded leg and protecting their own bare toes by the simple expedient of standing on Boromir and Glorfindel's boots. Then Imrahil was pounding Boromir on the back, and Faramir too, and the room was one glorious, laughing, chattering mass.

"What is that?" Celeborn demanded, every Elf, even Arwen and Aragorn turning suddenly to face Boromir's bedroom. Instantly, silence fell, and the irritated crying of his daughter could be plainly heard.

"My niece!" Faramir replied instantly, his arm once more around his Uncle's shoulder. "We have a niece!"

The crying settled, and a few moments later, Liel appeared with Liramir cradled in one arm, the small finger of her free hand being sucked happily by her daughter. She surveyed the much changed room with her usual frowning aplomb, and Boromir knew she was ticking over all the things that must be done to accommodate their new guests as well as the future implications for their kingdom and their family. Even before he'd seen her beauty, he had loved her for such competence and aplomb and he had to grin at her.

"A niece…." Imrahil repeated, untangling himself to go to Liel's side and look down at the tiny thing.

"Valar," he breathed, touching the little feet bunched under their blanket with a gloved finger. "She is the image of her grandmother!"

"I'm sorry," Boromir apologized, limping toward his wife. "I forgot she was sleeping…."

Liel raised an eyebrow at him as his arm went around her shoulders. "I can imagine."

"Can I…." Imrahil asked, hesitating as he looked down at his stained clothes and grimed armor. He looked to have been swilled off to remove the gore of fighting, but the dust of the ride across from the Pelennor had stuck the harder for it.

"Babies wash," Liel replied, handing the now sleeping child to her great-uncle. "Come , sit down," she ordered, and Boromir knew the command was as much for him as it was for Imrahil as she guided them both back to the table. He caught the subtle direction of Liel's chin and let his gaze follow it, to find Eomer had found his cousin Lothriel's smile more interesting than his maps.

"Elena, we'll need another table and more chairs," Liel continued briskly, as if finding her home full of Elves in shining armor was something that happened to her every day. "And let Beth know we have more guests…."

Reaching out, he took her hand and drew his wife into Faramir's chair, as his brother had now claimed the chair by Eowyn's side. There would be time enough to decide the details of their already decided course tomorrow, he decided. Today and tonight they would take to remind themselves what they had to fight for.


End file.
